


Full brothers in blood

by Kalendeer



Series: Full brothers in blood Verse [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, Culture Shock, Elf Culture & Customs, Uruk culture, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2018-05-31 22:50:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 41,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6490393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalendeer/pseuds/Kalendeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We left Middle Earth, never to return, and shall never speak of these lands again." As those words of Finwë became law, the fate of his first child, a son taken by the Shadow, remains a taboo never to be shared with any of his children. But in Angband, the son of Miriel is not dead at all.</p><p>Fëanaro abandoned his half-brother only to meet a full-blooded one, more alien to him than Nolofinwë will ever be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The sons of Miriel [Mirfin]

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Dawn Felagund's idea that Finwë doesn't like to be reminded of the horror that was Middle Earth, I decided to push the idea: what if Miriel's death wasn't entirely caused by Fëanaro's birth, but also by the grief of loosing a child during the great march west? 
> 
> I've been toying with the idea of uruk culture, and the fate of this lost child was an open door. Obviously this story will be kind of dark since we're going to Angband to meet orcs, and Fëanaro is definitively not going there as an honoured guest, so expect talks of torture, rapes, slavery, and everything that we usually expect of orcs.
> 
> On a final note english is not my mother tongue. I'm doing my best to write properly, but I know I make a lot of mistakes. Feel free to point them (and the weird non-english phrasing) out, it would be a blessing for everyone! 
> 
> Enjoy!

**The cast (for now)  
**

Mairon: Sauron  
Kalimbo: Gothmog  
Angamando: Angband  
Balaraukô: The balrogs  
Fëanaro: Fëanor  
Fluithin: Originally, Gothmog's mother and an ogress; here she is a former maia of Irmo.  
Fairëliantë: A former maia of Namo Mandos.

***

 

The last time Mirfin sees his father, he is a mere silhouette with bright eyes holding his mother back, hallowed by the red glow of torches. He is screaming that it is too late; that the Shadow has taken their son, that they _tried_. They are too late, she has done her best, and he can’t _lose her too_ – for he will, without a doubt, lose her if she tries to follow.

Miriel is screeching. Mirfin doesn’t know if she claws and rave from grief or if she feels, in her heart, that her little boy is still here, and she’s fighting toward him. That the strong arms holding him now are unbreakable but aren’t actually hurting him. That the hand on his mouth, silencing him, is surprisingly soft. No claws, no teeth.

He likes to believe she knows. 

Mirfin isn’t alone for long. The Shadow takes many children during the March. It used to capture full grown adults; no more.. The boy is carried to a pack of a dozen, all Tatyari like he is, and the dozen becomes a hundred and more by the time they reach Angamando. They are cold, tired and afraid, and sick of the uncooked red meat and fruits the Shadows hunt to feed them. They miss their parents, though Mirfin doesn’t miss his father all that much. Finwë left for the West before his birth and came back changed, with strange eyes, weird trinkets and an unhealthy, devouring obsession for “the Light”.

He wants his mother.

Angamando is everything the story said it was; worst, even, for the mind of the boy couldn’t imagine the shattered landscape, biting cold, sharp stones and burned grass. Everything is enormous and terrible and scary. The Shadows take them to dark tunnels where no stars ever shine, a whole bunch of wailing children waiting to be devoured.

But it never happens. Angamando is not nearly as awful as the stories told.

The Shadows take them to an underground cavern. The walls are strange, far too smooth to be natural, and the ground is covered in furs. It is pleasantly warm, lighted by fires, and there is plenty of food. All in all it is a lot better than the dreadful March, and if their host isn’t lying, no one is going to be eaten.

Mother would have liked it there. She doesn’t even want to go West – she goes because she loves father and because he believes their children will grow happy there, happier than in Cuivenen. Miriel believes the story is altogether too pretty to be true.

Their host is named Maironôz, though he’d rather have them call him Mairon than butcher his name with their ineffectual tongues. He is beautiful, taller than any elf Mirfin has ever seen, with a skin the color of gold and coppery hair. His eyes glow with an inner fire and his teeth, so perfect and bright when he smiles, have the unearthly texture of mother-of-pearl.

The fortress, Mairon explains with the clearest voice, is defended by the mighty Kalimbo and his troops. He shows them briefly to the children, but the enormous, fiery demons are a terrible sight for them. The next day they meet with Fairëliantë and Fluithuin. The first one is silent and alien, her grey skin of her four arms and too long fingers strangely translucent. What she does is “a bit too complicated for your young minds”, Mairon says, and he moves on to Fluithuin, a lovely lady who looks a lot like Mother: silver hair, kind, soft eyes and, though she is taller than most women, she is dwarfed by Mairon.

After the first day, the children are left to Mairon’s and Fluithuin’s care. She is a mother to them all, ensuring they are fed and comfortable. She tells stories about the World, how the Mother-Father of all things created the Valar and gave Arda to Melkor, the God of the gods. She tells of his long travels in the Void in search for the Flame, and how he used it to create all life on Arda. She tells of the great wars and how his brothers and sisters, jealous, struck him down and took him to the West, the great prison of Arda.

She soothe their fear as they tremble, knowing their parents are going there, to the West, where they will burn in the Light and be enslaved by the thieves. “For we must all obey the Great King,” she says, “but while there is honor in doing so for Melkor, who is the eldest and the most beloved of the Mother-Father Of All Things, this right belongs to him alone, and to bow this low to another is sinful in the eyes of the Mother-Father. She sleeps now, but at the end of times She will wake, and everything will be made right. You, my children, are the Faithful, and in Arda Unmarred you will be rewarded by She for your fealty to Her son.”

Every night, Mirfin prays that Mother will be rewarded too. It’s not her fault if Finwë dragged her west.

Fluithin is kind to them, protecting them from the nightmares of Irmo, drying their tears and revealing the truth, but Mairon is hardly a father. He likes to be addressed as Great Teacher and supervises their “education”. He teaches them the Holy Tongue he made for them, the arts of numbers and letters, and watches as they train their bodies. He gives small token to those who do well, yellow and red tiles which, he says, will make sense one day. Mirfin easily wins the red one and struggle for the yellow one, but at least he has some, while others have none.

Mirfin is fourty-seven according to Mairon’s calendar when the tokens’ meaning is revealed. All the children, five hundred of them, are lined in front of the Four. Mairon presides the ceremony, flanked by Fluithin and Fairëliantë, while Kalimbo watches from behind them, his hulking form towering above their heads.

The first rows are full of Tokens. Mirfin has nearly a hundred of them hanging from his neck, sewed into his clothes or around his wrists. He’s not the strongest one, but he made it to the first row; nearly all his tokens are red. The children are split into three column, one for the “full red” on the left, another for the “full yellow” on the right, and the “mixed ones” in the middle.

Mairon starts explaining. All their life, he has watched them, tested them, _forged_ them to be the core of his greatest gift to the God of Gods. They will be the leaders of his army, second only to Kalimbo’s balaraukô; his priests, the fathers and mothers of his soldiers. Soon, he says, the uruk will grow and become strong enough to overthrow the slaves of the thieves.

And they, his children, will be the uruk’s leaders in all things.

The first two ranks, Mairon declares, will be the new alpha of his new people. They will live as mates and sire children and rule side by side. The red will be his warchiefs, the Mulaks, and the yellow the guides, the Gashans.

The next rows, up to the one before the last one, will be the betas. They will bow to the Mulaks and Gashans, protect and help them, relay their words to the inferior uruks that will constitute the bulk of Melkor’s army.

The last row is made of those who never earned any token. Those Mairon calls with a stern voice.

“The glory of serving Melkor,” he says, his voice powerful and endearing, “is not _given_ but _won_. It is an honor to be deserved. You have been disappointments from the start to the end, with neither the will nor the talent to be worthy of the God of the Gods. But behold! You have reasons to hope, for your souls, when they will depart their shameful bodies, with be caught in the Net of Fairëliantë. There she will keep your souls, and they will be remade to be of use to the True King of Arda!”

Mirfin has killed before. He killed animals when he was taught to hunt and cook. He killed lowly uruks, deformed and pitiful creatures compared to himself, when Mairon started their training as warriors. He has, however, never killed a friend or another elf. As the new Mulak of the Tatyarsh, he is ordered by Mairon to slit the throat of a token-less girl he knows well, even liked, but he does so without any complain, be it from her or himself. His heart beats too fast, his belly cramps, but he tries to hide his discomfort from Mairon, to be worthy of him. Fluithin’s face is as soft as it always is, and he trusts her, she who looks so much like Miriel.

The token-less girl will be reborn. He knows she will.

When Melkor comes back from Valinor, Mirfin has killed more creatures than he can remember. Uruks, animals and elves; mostly uruks, lately, since Mairon dislikes his precious alphas wandering in and out of the kingdom. He is fiercely protective of them, their prized talents and knowledge. But Mirfin never forget the girl.

It was, after all, his baptism in blood.

***

By then, Mirfin has grown strong. He is not the tallest nor the quickest, but he is wise according to Mairon, and one of his favorites. He has a natural talent for languages that the golden god finds quite charming, and a strong voice that makes him his master’s main Singer. He can make anyone cower with the power gathered by his throat; in his Nation, it’s been a very long time since one of his betas tried to defy him for the throne of the Mulak of the Tatyarsh.

His position as First Singer comes with a seat at Mairon’s council, along with the First Blade, First Shield and First Bow. His first Gashan used to belong there, too, as First Priestess, when Mairon created the Council of the Nations, but she died a few years past in childbirth and his new Gashan, Agarin, is yet too young to be in favor. Her seat remained empty until today, and her replacement is from a rival nation.

“I have decided to send you out on the battlefield,” Mairon explains after the traditional blessings in the name of the God of gods. Despite Melkor’s return, none of the Mulaks and Gashans has been allowed in his presence yet; secretly, Mirfin was hoping today was the day. But there is no smile on Mairon’s face, no optimism, only the deadly seriousness of his words.

Sending alphas to the battlefield is highly irregular.

“The Noldor, slaves from the west, have followed our God and Master back to Middle Earth. They are the vanguard of the Valar and must be stopped. The scouts of the Nanyarsh tell us the Noldor landed at Losgar.”

The Nanyarsh live in the mountains by the sea, though their alpha stays in Angamando with their peers: the Mulak communicates with his betas subordinates through telepathic bonds, and by the same mean he relays orders. Mairon made sure all his officers are gifted in mind speech precisely because he wants them to lead from afar.

Now, the Mulak of the Nanyarsh, Usu-Tuku, First Bow, holds up three fingers in silence: the gesture every alpha has to make when they request permission to speak, for it is sinful to address the gods freely unless allowed so.

“The Nests of the western range are… puzzled by the actions of the Noldor. Their ships burnt two nights ago, and further reports suggest it was voluntary, since the destruction was very thorough and not caused by my people or the local Sindar. One of their ranging party was captured yesterday, but unfortunately, their language is alien to us and their minds remain closed.”

If Mairon is surprised by the burning, he keeps the feeling close to his chest.

“The Noldor are divided. The burning of the ships may be a result of their infightings, or mean that they have such a fleet assembled that they don’t care to send their ships back. The Nanyarsh will guard Lammoth and the coast with renewed strengths. You will move your whole forces there and direct them at your discretion.

Now, let us plan the battle ahead. As for now, we outnumber the Noldor a hundred to one, ten to one if we consider only the troops available for a direct assault. Our main priorities, as ordered by the God and Master, is to destroy the noldorin vanguard, reinforce our positions on the coast, and then finish the elves of the south. Despite their victory last summer, Doriath didn’t try to push their advantage. I believe the south can wait for now.

The God and Master has set another goal that is quite dear to him. He wants the leader of the Noldor captured and brought to him _whole_ and _unspoiled_. Kalimbo agrees with me that his own forces are a bit too… strong to manage this particular part of the plan.” A slight smile allows his Mulak to laugh with Mairon. The Balaraukô are great killing machines, but as unable to keep their prisoners alive as they are to build a snowman. “This task will be entrusted to you. I believe that our First Singer, Sword and Shield will be sufficient to defeat a single noldo.”

They straigthen their back. _Of course we will_ , each of them wants to scream. Each of them would do it alone with his eyes closed and one arm tied to his back if they could: their society is ruthlessly competitive, and each of the alphas would murder his own children to make Mairon proud.

“Let us set the trap then, my students.”

***

The battle goes both horribly wrong and fantastically well.

The first battle of Beleriand has been a tie, with a defeat on the field against the troops of Doriath, but an occupation of almost all of Beleriand. The first fight against the Noldor is a first class butchery that puts everyone to shame.

Mirfin cannot say that he loves his people. He knew what love was, a very long time ago, but it’s a word no one uses in Angamando. Mairon didn’t even bother to create it when he crafted the Holy Tongue. The Mulak feels responsible for the Tatyarsh. They are his strength, his power, and without them he is nothing but a lonely warrior: hardly anything more than the uruk rank-and-file.

He loses half his warriors in three days.

Three. Days.

It took three centuries to breed them.

Everything fails. They knew the uruks were weaker than elves. They are, after all, unable to meet the alphas and betas (who are physically very much like their Sindarin cousins), and no one expected the Noldor to be weaker than the sindar. But there is weaker and _weaker_ , and the Mulaks are astonished by the fragmented images they receive through telepathy. The Noldor are taller, broad shouldered, with a terrible light in their eyes that puts terror in the heart of the troops. The betas struggle to keep control of their troops, and there is only so much Mirfin can do when his soldiers are too panicked to even try to understand his orders.

The leadership fails by the second day. Half the Mulak don’t even know how many soldiers they lost. It’s like Mairon’s system, so perfect, so well made, so sustainable, is suddenly turning to ash because it’s just _not working_. In front of the fury of the west, the mind links aren’t holding.

Mirfin waits for the punishment. When his troops will return, he can chose to have one out of ten killed right away, or one out of twenty and be flogged himself. The failure is his own; he knows he will ask for the flogging.

Mairon’s face is hard, jaws clenched, his mind working so fast he forgets to breathe. By the third day, the only piece of good news is that their target, the noldorin king, is riding dangerously close to Angamando, well ahead of his army. Kalimbo hoovers in the background, but the smith smells more dangerous than the hulking Balaraukô.

“ _Burn them_ ,” the god hisses. His golden eyes flash red as blood, his hair glows as metal melting. “I want them _burnt_ and _crushed_ and _turned to ashes_. Kill them all under the eyes of their king. Make him feel _**powerless**_ against your might!”

The great demon roars, a terrible scream that shakes the mountains; the echo of his children and brothers is even more terrible, like a thousand drums, and their strength lights the fire again in the Mulaks’ hearts.

The alphas don their armors. The uruks’ swords and armor of iron are outmatched by the noldor’s steel, but Mirfin’s was crafted by Mairon itself with thin, blackened mithril, leather infused by Power and fire-resistant silk. It’s been decades since the Mulak wore it in combat rather than for mere ceremonies, but the outfit hums against his skin as if glad to taste blood once more. The gloves and boots hug his fingers and feet like lovers; the helmet, a silver mask with a white mane reminiscent of his hair, is as dreadful as it beautiful, the blank face of death, and though it covers the mouth, Mairon bent the metal with sorceries known only to him to make the voice carry farther than it should. Mirfin’s sword is subpar compared to the piece of art adorning his body, but he isn’t planning to use it much compared to his true weapon.

They ride after the Balaraukô to war mounted on the back of black wolfs. The demons spread their dark wings and spring through the tunnels. They are too heavy to fly. They jump a lot farther than anyone may guess.

By the time Mirfin’s great black wolf carries him to the hills looking down on the place of the noldorin royal’s guard last stand, most of them are dead already. Some stray horses managed to escape the closing ring of the Balaraukô, and those who didn’t are piercing the air with their dying whinnies. The smell of burnt flesh hangs across the plain, overwhelming. The banner of the noldoran is still high, flapping, but the design is smeared in grim.

A white bird comes and flies. Its wings change into a flowing cloak of grey, its feathers into the light clothes of a hunter. Mirfin shivers, for Fluithin the Dream-Broideress is with them. It is easy to forget Fluithin was a Shadow once, skilled in roaming the world and snatching preys, and that she has tricks of her own to defend herself.

Clad in an armor of obsidian glass from head to toe, Mairon, mounted on the biggest and meanest wolf of Angamando (one, some says, that he fathered himself, taking the shape of a beast, to ensure its strength), looks down at her, unreadable. What they say to each other is lost to the world, but at the end she doesn’t depart.

The Balaraukô make a great game of snatching the survivors one by one, always careful not to _upset_ the king. The noldor’s position is hopeless now, for they rode to the middle of nowhere and cannot hope to break the circle: even if they managed to give the slip to the demons, the plain is on fire. Finally only the king remains, his face contorted by blind rage, his hair twisting in the wind around his pale head. With a start, Mirfin sees for himself that he’s _glowing_ , his skin emitting a soft light, and his eyes are piercing like a white-hot blade.

The elf rages and screams, but Kalimbo evades his charge with a mere flap of his wings. Wherever the noldo goes, his enemies only evade him, jumping to the burning high grasses, laughing at his feeble efforts, for for all his might, he’s still so small and fragile compared to their primordial strength.

“I want him whole,” Mairon orders. The signal for the charge of the First Sword, First Shield and First Singer. “Mirfin. Sing him down.” _I want him humiliated, sobbing at your feet_ , he states through mind-speech. _Remember, student of mine, that the memories of your mother are your strongest theme_. “Narwë, Eshda, be ready to restrain him if needed. I won’t have one of you killed by this rebellious piece of trash.”

The three dismount and run down the hill, leaving the two gods watching atop the mount. Their wolfs are nimble but unprotected for the fire they are running through. At least they enter the circle strewed with corpses, Mirfin first, the two Mulaks flanking him a few feet behind.

The noldoran turns to them, eying them with a fury that reeks of madness. He towers over the Singer by half a head and probably weights as much naked as Mirfin does with his armor on, but it’s the eyes who bother the alpha: the feral orbs of a beast gone fey. Now the beast is eying him with suspicion, wondering, perhaps, why the enemy is sending them when the Balaraukô were doing such a good job at making his life miserable.

Mirfin bows, as does one when starting a duel for the prized position of alpha. He is a servant of the true God of the gods; he honors his master by behaving with grace. The gesture startles the king, who utters a few words in an incomprehensible, barbarious language.

Then Mirfin starts to Sing.

He throws the might of his Master against the king, and Sings in valarin of the greatness of Melkor, his powerful voice slamming into the king like a wave. The noldoran takes a step back as if hit; his lips curl and he Sings back in a valarin that doesn’t fit his throat (it never does when they learn it after childhood, when the tongue stops being so nibble and pliable), words of a broken chain, disdain and revenge that Mirfin turns back to him : foolishness and pain to come, but there is the King again, throwing all his spirit’s strength for Light and a love that hurts more than a thousand blade.

And so they go on, back and forth, until the sheer force of the noldoran’s song his forcing the uruk king to the defensive. The First Singer relays desperately on his skills and refinement, but his opponent hammers through everything with a fire that burns hotter than Mairon’s furnaces, his spirit so strong and bright it takes all his tricks not to get scorched. An uruk with lesser will and conviction would have crumbled after the first passage of arms, nevertheless Mirfin deflects the brute strength with all the cunning he can summon. He’s waiting for a mistake to strike true and fast: the noldoran is full of cracks while the Mulak is of solid rock, but even he can break faced with such relentless force.

With no sign of weakening on the king’s part and his own forces fading, Mirfin falls back to his strongest shield. Out of his mouth and mind she comes, the image of his Mother, of her hopes and bravery, and how she loved him; and surely none can deny the valor of one hallowed by such affection, from such a woman, and he sings of her strength and beauty of mind and body. The sheer power of the memory (Miriel fighting Finwë to take him back whatever the cost, Miriel looking at him, Miriel singing to him, Miriel teaching him the tongues of animals and the way of the bow with trembling arms) rips his throat apart; the mask is burning with barely contained power, his lungs are aching, his spirit reeling from the effort.

The noldoran keeps silent.

They watch each other, shaken, drained to the core. Mirfin stays up by sheer will, his trembling legs threatening to give up. Never before has an opponent wounded him so.

The noldoran takes a step forward, sword in hand.

Mirfin’s fell from his finger ages ago.

He feels death coming, but the white arms circling his shoulders are soft and cool. He is on his knees, bathed by the floating, silver mane of Mother’s hair. Miriel is dressed as she was when her son was taken from her, clad in white furs sewed with wooden pearls. Her eyes are grey and luminous, the exact shade of the king’s. Her body has the diaphanous quality of mist.

“Don’t, Fëanaro!” she gasps. Wounded. The fey glare, Mirfin can now see, has receded behind a veil of exhaustion, grief and dismay. Why does he have her eyes?

The noldo takes a step back, shocked, conflicted now that his anger doesn’t lead him anymore. His face is a battleground for so many emotions, betraying the shattering of everything that was holding him together despite the massacre, the heat, the tiredness and the mind-wrecking duel.

“Mother?”

The cool arms leave Mirfin’s shoulders. His Mother, his Miriel is leaving him, walking toward this creature of light and furor, but he can’t even get up to follow her. Fëanaro is retreating, unsure of her, of the woman in front of his eyes, not thinking clearly; she goes to him and caress his grim-soiled cheek with her snowy fingers.

“You look so tired,” she breathes. “Sleep, my love,” and she helps him to the ground, helpless and spent, his eyes closing against all his instincts, in the arms of a woman who can’t be there.

She turns, and it’s Fluithin’s face looking back at Mirfin, a sad smile playing on her slim lips.

 

 


	2. Never is a long time [Fëanaro]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanaro is a guest in Angband. It's not a nice place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moringotto : Morgoth/Melkor  
> Maitimo : Maedhros  
> Mairon : Sauron  
> Fairëliantë : Liantë means "spider". Fairë has a lot of meanings: disembodied spirits, natural death and radiant.  
> Valaraukar : the balrogs  
> Angamando : Angband

When Fëanaro wakes, he is naked, laying down on a table of stone, and is surprised by the total absence of pain.

Ever since Finwë died, his life has been a never ending flow of stress, fear, anger and grief, all battling to take hold of his mind. The suffering of his spirit bled constantly through his body, plaguing him like poison.

He feels oddly calm, still half asleep. His mother was right, he was tired, desperately tired, going on endlessly like a flame fed with bad fuel. He doesn’t want to wake, nagged by the feeling that something has gone awfully wrong. The consciousness comes back, gradually.

Miriel can’t have been there.

Fëanaro wonders if he’s dead or mad. Miriel’s apparition makes sense if he is, indeed, dead; that would explain the lack of suffering. Nonetheless, madness is not entirely invalid as a hypothesis, because he doesn’t feel like a disembodied spirit.

Panic starts to creep in when he tries to move and can’t. His brain is trying to process that it’s not pain that’s missing, but feelings. His limbs, his hands, he can’t feel them or move them, as if they were still attached but unresponsive. He can breath and move his eyes but nothing more. He sees needles at the periphery of his field of view, digging into his flesh, and the fear intensifies despite his sedate state.

A lean, tall creature appears on his left. He knows it for a maia without a doubt. Most maiar, in Valinor, try to alleviate the elves's discomfort around them by trying their best to look elvish; the one in front of him is not even trying. It’s not breathing, not blinking, is both incredibly tall and thin, has four arms and fingers reminiscent of spider legs. Its eyes are black and faceted and watch him like a corpse to dissect.

“Hello, your majesty,” she greats him, lips unmoving, tone flat and meaningless. She seems to glide to his side, her long fingers catching a single needle embed in his throat. There's not feel but for a tickling sensation. “I hope you rested well. You were, truly, in a dreadful state of exhaustion when you were brought to me.”

He manages to swallow, and understands the needle was somehow paralyzing the muscles of his neck. He supposes he can speak now. Not that he has anything to say to it.

“You have been such a delight to work on; such a bright, colorful little spirit.” Still no intonation. “Nonetheless, my labor ends there. I am going to take the needles out. Please do not try to move. They are embed into your nerves, and we wouldn’t like to deprive you of a limb or two, would we?”

“What did you do to me?”

He tries to sound angry, but his voice comes out thin and scrappy, and Fëanaro thinks he sounds more like a child than a mighty king.

“I spun my web upon you. Now, if anything was to happen to you – accidents leading to your death, most likely, you would stay safely here, at my disposal until I see fit to provide you with a new body. Please, try not to die: the process in long and difficult, and you might stay houseless for years before we can reincarnate you.”

The more she speaks, the colder he feels. 

“Since our Master finds your current incarnation very pleasing, I have been tasked with weaving another net, very close fitting, which will keep your spirit inside your body despite pain, grief and extreme wounds. Trying anything foolish would thus prove incredibly distasteful to you. I advise cooperation, since escaping will prove both impossible and futile.”

He wants to believe she is lying. The thought of death has been a comforting one lately. Not that he wishes to remain jailed at Mandos’ mercy, but the hope of joining his parents, away from the weight of kingship and pain was a dam against his fears. Whatever happened death was to be the worst of it, and the worst wasn’t that frightening. Some days Fëanaro believes he would jump down a cliff if he didn’t have seven son to grieve for him.

And now, that slim hope of reuniting is gone. He wants, will all his heart, not to believe the creature, but he feels her power on him like a thin layer of oil.

He wants to move – for what he doesn’t know. To throw up, to run, to attack, to bite and fight and cower and dream Finwë isn’t dead and will come and save him. He was a fool to believe Middle Earth would be a glorious quest, he who had never known anything bloodier than hunts in which he had always been the predator. He wants to move but won’t, because if he loses anymore strength to nerve-damaging mistakes, he knows he will lessens his chances of ever escaping this place.

Fëanaro breathes and steels himself. Whatever happens, a smart one should always be able to use the situation for one goal or another, and she seems inclined to talk. 

“Who are you?”

She tilts her inexpressive head. Why she bothered to craft herself lips is beyond the Noldo. She doesn’t use them to answer, her face remaining still and blank. 

“I am called Fairëliantë. Once my brother and sisters named me Varanathatzlûn. I was told you speak the True Tongue.”

“Not as much as I would like to.”

“The skill is rare among your race. I was told, also, that you are tremendously gifted with your hands and mind. I would advise you to befriend Mairon. He is powerful here, and most beloved by Melkor. With your talent and his favor, I do not doubt you will live quite comfortably.”

The mere presumption that he may put his skills at the service of Melkor is laughable. It must have shown because the maia finally smiles.

“Oh, dear. You are planning to resist, aren’t you?” A strange noise eruptes from her being, half-animal, half-mechanical. She _is laughing_. “Foolish little thing! Foolish, fragile little thing! They will break you in a thousand pieces! You will know pain, so intense every pleasure you ever felt will be dwarfed forever, and like all living thing, you will learn to fear it. You will live the rest of your life wondering when pain will return, if your next misstep will bring punishment; pain at the back of your mind, binding you, limiting and diminishing you, until you are the Spirit of Fire no more. This I tell you: tears unnumbered you shall shed. Mandos is now fenced against you, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains to the land of the deads. Your Oath drove and betrayed you, and ever you will watch your treasures without a chance of ever reclaiming them.”

The touch of a cold finger ghosts on his cheek; again he cannot move, deprived of the control of his limb, petrified by the wording, so close to his fear.

Too close to the Doom of Mandos to be a strike in the dark.

“Yes, my little one. Long have I served my lord Namo, when in loneliness he dwelt, in Halls built for Children unborn yet. I have my share of his gifts and powers; yet, in my kindness, and because compassion is not entirely foreign to him, I tell you this: renounce resistance, for it is futile. Renounce hope, for it is pointless. You can still bring great wonders to this world; beauty you will make no more if you give reason to Melkor and Mairon to destroy you. You will live in grief, but at the end of things, you will still be Fëanaro. Refuse He Who Arises In Might, and you will break like a twig, the shade of something great, passed and gone.”

“Never!” he spits to her face. “I swore revenge for my father and myself! I will never be cowardly enough not to toil toward this goal! Your sly words do not move me, just like the words of Mandos couldn’t turn me away from justice! I _swore_ on the name of Iluvatar himself and shan't renounce His name either!”

“Such a terrible oath, child." She cackles like some mecanical device. "But empty, for there is no Iluvatar to be bound to. This is a secret shared amongst my kind: that there is no greater power anywhere. You are, in fact, entirely free but for the shackles you put on yourself with misguided faith.”

Her fingers entwined in his hair, sending a disgusted shiver through his spine.

“You will always be safe in my web, but what of your children? They swore with you and their souls belong to my lord Mandos. With the blood on their hands, and the blood yet to taint them, do you think they will be affored any mercy? You should ask Melkor about Mandos' jail and what it does to the soul. It did, after all, turn him quite mad.”

He wants to get up, scream at her, fight her, but there is a light prickling at the base of his neck and his body goes limp. He opens his mouth like a fish gaping out of water. The last thing he sees before the world turn to black is her unreadable, amused face.

 

***

Fëanaro doesn’t know how long he sleeps this time, but he is alone when he wakes. There is a pile of rich clothes neatly folded on a table, shoes made of soft skin, and a gold diadem that isn’t actually his. Everything fits him perfectly, down to the color themes he favors, though the broideries don’t look noldorin at all. He studies the motifs for a moment: geometrical, sharp patterns forming various knots. He considers not accepting the “gift”, but the alternative of staying naked doesn’t really agree with him. He leaves the diadem untouched.

The room has a door, heavy and nondescript; unsurprisingly it’s locked. Fëanaro became somewhat of a lock expert a few centuries ago, back when everything mechanical seemed to capture his attention, but he lacks the proper tools to open this one. If it’s very simple he may manage by twisting the buckle of his belt and the diadem. He starts to unbuckle the belt and quickly buckles it again when he hears a latch being pulled back.

The creature in front of him must be a maia. Towering over him, skin the color of metallic gold, hair oddly coppery and eyes that shine like embers, he is at least entertaining the illusion of living – unlike Fairëliantë, he breathes, and his face doesn’t seem to be lacking in facial muscles.

“Your _majesty_ ,” the maia speaks, with a voice dripping with too much honey not to make a mockery out of it. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you – conscious and clothed. I am Mairon, Great Smith and Steward of Angamando. I have heard many things about your _achievements_.”

By the look on his face, he doesn’t look like those impress him.

“So have I,” Fëanaro retorts. “You were sometimes discussed in Lord Aulë’s halls.”

“In good, I hope.”

_More like science gone bad._

 “Good wouldn’t be my choice of words.”

Mairon sighs dramatically.

“Aulë is powerful and wise, but he was always lacking in both ambition and imagination. It is no wonder that both you and I left him to his conservatism and petty achievements.”

“I didn’t left _him_ ,” Fëanaro clarifies. He resents the Valar, is suspicious of them, but despite all his failings, Aulë is the only one who never let him down. He was the one who, when he was but a child, claimed to the face of his brothers that he wasn’t born of the Marring; he was his teacher when his father’s home was torture to him. He was the one who presented him to Mahtan, even though Fëanaro had been firmly against leaving his service at the time, believing himself abandoned again (in retrospect, the teenager had behaved like a little beast during this particular discussion, and it had taken far too much time for Aulë to convince him that he should work with other noldor and have friends of his own race). Aulë had blessed his wedding, and some of the rarest materials used in making the Silmarils would have been impossible to obtain without the help of the Vala.

Yet, never had Aulë asked for anything that belonged, rightfully, to his former student. He understood that giving a piece of marble to someone doesn’t make you the owner of the sculpture; he knew how much the Silmarils had cost, in body, spirit and mind.

He was the only one to defend Fëanaro when the Valar tried to coerce him into giving them away.

“My leaving Valinor is not a betrayal of Aulë or his teaching. If you believe you can win me to your cause by denigrating your former patron, you are thoroughly mistaken. If anything, it only makes you look like an ingrate traitor.”

The maia frowns, his whole body tensing. The displeasure quickly disperses, but his voice remains cold and threatening.

“Angering me is not an advisable move, elf. You should do well to remember your place – for you have no power here, and are so far below me you will always lack the power to do me any harm. Likewise, you will never be able to do as much as scratch Lord Melkor’s skin. Your only achievement in avenging your father and getting your trinkets back is a _nickname_.”

“Names have power. Moringotto will never be Melkor again; he won’t be trusted or pardoned anymore. The more his enemies will name him so, the stronger they will reject all thoughts of serving him. Each time his _nickname_ gets out of a free mouth, his power erodes. You should know – Aulë is a master of language as well as a formidable crafter.”

“Power?” Mairon jokes. “You know nothing of power. You are too limited in your perceptions to feel as we do.”

“I know more than you believes.”

“Do you?” A predatory smiles grows on the maia’s face. “Fine. Let us put your knowledge in power to the test. Name me.”

“Name you?”

“Yes. Name me in a way that, according to you, can limit me in any way. I will make sure your petty nickname spreads to your fellow Noldor. If this name proves, indeed, to be a weakness to me, I will owe you one favor. On the contrary, if I demonstrate to you that I can use it to my advantage, you will open your mind to me, _wholly_ and without resistance, and for as long as I care to dwell inside your head.”

“I will think about your offer.”

“Doubting yourself?”

“No,” Fëanaro answers. “I know myself.” A lie. Lately, he has discovered far too much about how far he can go. “It is you I refuse to trust.”

The maia turns to the door, opens it, and the great hallway is both appealing and a new source of dread.

“You should consider it. If your theory is right, not only will you be able to weaken me, but you may actually win a chance of escaping.” With an elegant flourish of the hands, Mairon beckons him to follow. “Lord Melkor will receive you now. Try not to get yourself killed right away – I have many projects in mind than are far more entertaining than crafting a new body to host your soul.”

 

***

Fëanaro always thought Melkor was creepy and stressful. Each visit from the vala left him shaken, worried and more than slightly paranoid.

Now, he finds Moringotto _terrifying_.

The throne room is lighted by roaring braziers, but the ceiling is so high the pillars lose their heads to the shadow. The delicate, intricate carvings at their base are reminiscent of the geometrical patterns of the noldo’s shirt, meaning it’s probably a constant of whatever artistic culture they have here. Moringotto himself sits on a huge stony chair at the top of a fling of stairs; here the motifs are filled with gold.

 The combination of stairs, chair and sheer heights forces Fëanaro to look up dramatically in order to meet his foes’ gaze. Moringotto is tmore than thrice his size, encased in an armor of black metal, his face a sickly white under a curtain of hair the color of ice. His skull seems constricted into his crown, and Fëanaro frowns at the sight of it: most probably iron, out of shape, the symmetry not even there, heavy-looking in weight and forms. He doesn’t whish anything better for Moringotto, but it rankles to see his perfect Silmarils set into such a base design.

“ _King_ Fëanaro,” Moringotto greets him. “How kind of you to come and visit my humble abode.”

He smiles and it looks like his skin is going to crack. The hall is empty but for his valaraukar, Mairon, and some dogs that are most probably no dogs at all; the fiery demons let out a chorus of throaty laughing. Finally, the chuckling recedes and an embarrassing silence fills the hall. Fëanaro knows he’s expected to answer something cheeky just so Moringotto can talk him down, but for once the Noldo doesn’t want to _talk_. He will not be made a mockery of, and will not engage in playful, sadistic chit-chat with the murderer of his father.

The silence stretches until Moringotto frowns, apparently surprised that his usually very vocal prisoner has nothing to say.

“Well?"

The elf’s mouth stays resolutely shut.

“Nothing? No oath, no promises of revenges, no requests to get your beloved jewels back?”

He sets his jaw and ignores his words, eyes firmly staring into the Vala’s, mind closed.

“You _will_ answer when talked to.”

 _No_.

“Always difficult. Even here, as my prisoner, you would still disrespect me? Don’t you ever admit defeat, arrogant child?”

Fëanaro answers only with silence. Suddenly, Moringotto lunches forward, with a lack of agility compensated by his enormous reach. The colossal monster grabs him by the hair with a hand so big he could crush his head in it and pulls, so hard the noldo has no chance to regain his footing. By the time Moringotto sits back in his chair, Fëanaro’s toes are barely grazing the stairs under him, just enough to know he may touch the ground. Instinctively he tries to grab the steel-clad fingers.

“Do not make me break you, Fëanaro. You are a worthy prize. Your beauty, your mind, your passion, I want to treasure them, but should you refuse them to me, destroying you will be most satisfying. Whether you live the rest of your life as a beloved pet or a mindless wreck is your own choice.”

 _Never_.

The fingers let go; Fëanaro can’t find his footing and stumbles halfway through the stairs, bruised and unsure of his legs, neck, back and scalp throbbing from the abuse.

“Never is a long time for someone so young,” the Vala says with a chuckle in his voice. “I gave you a chance to take advantage of my fairness, Fëanaro, and you are going to regret refusing me sooner than you think.” He sits back into his throne, smug and confident. “Bring our other guest.”

The _guest_ is an armored elf wearing plate armor, chest emblazoned with an eight-pointed white star. He is dragged unconscious to the throne room, feet scrapping the ground with a sound like a fork on a plate. The party of orcs carrying him is cheerful; their ugly, grating tongue twisted by jeers. One of them clutches a plummet of red hair between his fingers, a grim trophy cut from the head of their prize.

There is only one elf with such an outfit, with such a rare color of hair.

A look of horror creeps on Fëanaro’s face despite himself, mirroring the cruel glee on Moringotto’s.

“It seems you noldor have some troubles keeping your noldorans safe and sounds. Young Maitimo thought he could outwit me, bringing a whole army to negotiate. Can you believe the nerves this young elf has?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “You can go to him if you want. Check that he’s still alive.”

He gestures for the orcs to drop their charge and step back. It takes all of Fëanaro’s self-control to walk instead of run to his son’s side. He kneels by his side, finds a pulse, and suddenly can’t ignore the inevitable: that his beloved eldest is here, smeared in blood, unconscious, defenseless, his skin warm and soft. The picture of Finwë’s destroyed face overlaps with Maitimo’s, fiery hair turning into into bloody smears.

He can’t bear it. Not after Finwë, not after his own run with Fairëliantë, not considering his own abject, instinctive terror under Moringotto’s gaze.

Never is a long time indeed. It's just a matter of time, of finding the time to find a way out. Fëanaro is good at finding. He must trust that this is only a temporary set back, that he will make everything right.

“What do you want from me?”

“Begging your pardon?” the Vala asks with false innocence. “I did not hear you properly, _Noldoran_.”

“I said, what is it that you want from me.” Moringotto is still waiting and there's the urge to throw the offensive nickname into his face. Bad idea. As it been his own skin, Fëanaro would have thrown insults over insults, but he won’t squander Maitimo’s life for the sake of bravado. “Melkor.”

“Try again?”

_Someone should take some drama lessons from Mandos. At least he knows how to make a statement._

“Lord Melkor.”

“Be more specific.”

He knows he shouldn’t. The Oath forbids both helping and negotiating with the Vala, though the Oath seems to hold little weight against his son’s welfare. Perhaps Fairëliantë is right: perhaps the vow isn’t binding, or parental love is simply enough to override it.

“Please, lord Melkor, what can I do in exchange from my son’s life?” he says, half-shouting. His voice echoes in the cavern and makes the orcs laugh.

Moringotto lets them laugh for a long time.

“Don’t worry, Spirit of mine. I have a few ideas,” the Black Foe answers with delight, “of ways of putting your _many_ talents to use.”

 


	3. The path to submission [Fëanaro]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanaro crafts a necklace. Morgoth is not impressed.

Moringotto’s idea of _using his many talents_ is, thanks Eru, a show of pettiness rather than pure brutality. He invites Fëanaro to grand diners with enough food to feed an army, his servants waiting silently while the two banqueters eat alone and make conversation. It’s tedious and the noldo feels sick at the thought that he should stab the Vala a thousand time with his kitchen knife instead of talking with as much charm as he can musters (which is, actually, very little; his tongue feels like lead and he has to bit back the truth every time he opens his mouth).

Not now. Not yet. With his apparent submission comes more freedom, and he hopes to find a way to escape with his son.

After a few weeks of idleness punctuated with diners and the occasional walk to the cells to check that Maitimo is still alright (always when he is asleep), Moringotto commissions a necklace from him. Fëanaro accepts because he can’t see how a piece of jewelry can be used against his family; he hates the idea that anything from his hands will rightfully belong to the Black Foe, but it’s neither sword nor armor, and may allow him to steal much needed tools.

The smithy they give him access to is a marvel of organization and technology. The ovens are of a quality rivaled only by those of Aulë, fitting for a Maia, the working bench clean and spacious. It is lacking in light but extra lamps have been added for his sake.

When the smith asks Mairon if the workshop is his, he remains stubbornly silent.

The commission is an ambitious one. It’s Mairon who gives the specifics: high necked, the choker will go down to the back and chest, cover most of the shoulders, and be ornamented with artificial gems meant to magnify the natural glow of eldar skin, giving them a light “of their own” when worn, and no light at all when laying down on a cushion. In a way it’s more like an ornamented gorgerin of swirls and delicate patterns than a true necklace. The Maia is vague regarding the recipient, whose measurements are needed: she’s female, favors white and silver, and with a quick gaze Mairon proclaims she’s of comparable build and neck circumference as Fëanaro. 

Mairon leaves him alone with a guard. Fëanaro is taken aback by his strange appearance, but there is nothing that marks him as anything other than a quendë; he cannot see any visible deformation, though the elf squints away from the many lamps. His new jailer is more akin to him than to the orcs.

The noldo king observes him openly. The attention doesn’t seem to make him uncomfortable: he returns the gaze with grey, alert eyes, duller than his own but with an evident lack of submission. He is half a head shorter with snow white hair, though a very thin shadow of black near the scalp suggest it’s been bleached. His skin is chalk white, unnatural, probably covered with some kind of whitening foundation to make it looks like so; it is marked with scars, precise and deliberate, arranged in circles and markings that can’t be anything but cultural designs, much like the tattoos displayed by some of the Sindar of Mithrim. His lips are painted black, his eyes smeared with kohl, and he has no eyebrows at all.

His clothes, as well, betray his high rank: lavish fabric dyed with sharp, bright colors, mainly a dark blood red, embroidered with the geometrical patterns Fëanaro is starting to link with Angamando’s art style. He wears a coat of whitened leather stitched with white beads, perhaps made of bone, closed with golden clasps. A gold circle the size of a ner’s hand is embed into a bright red sash around his belly, exquisitely engraved with the stylized image of a tree.

Not a common orc indeed.

“My name is Fëanaro. Who are you?” he asks in a friendly tone. If he can find allies here… When the other doesn’t react, the king guesses he can’t understand quenya, and try again by pointing at himself. “Fëanaro. You?”

His gesture is met with icy indifference.

“Quendë? Kendë?” he tries a more archaic tongue, but still the other watches him, straight in the eyes, without any notable reaction. “Did Mairon order you not to answer when I talk to you?”

He tries to mime the question. The ner follows his movement, but if he understands, he doesn’t show that he does.

The commission takes many days to complete. The silent quendë watches him the first day and is replaced, after that, by subordinates. They whiten their skin too, but their hair bestow natural colors; they have inferior but tailored clothing, less scarifications on their face, and the symbol of their clan (the stylized tree) is engraved on a lesser metal. Each time Fëanaro tries to talk to them, only to be met with stubborn silence. They all watch him like hawks, and he can’t steal the tools needed to escape (it’s a shame; he knows the path to Maitimo’s cell by heart now).

Fëanaro must admit his work is subpar compared to his usual creation. There is a certain dismay in the admission: he wasn’t ready to bet Maitimo’s life on a flawed piece, but it’s like his former drive bleeds out of him, when it’s not simply absent. He already had troubles concentrating after the creation of the Silmarils; he hasn’t actually crafted anything since Finwë’s death. He finds the design uninspired at best. Has the Darkening eroded what was left of his talent? The idea that he may have lost more than his Jewels, more than his father and home, but his aptitudes as well scares him.

When Mairon considers the final product, Fëanaro feels like a student under the gaze of a stern teacher. It’s a stressful feeling, one he didn’t feel in centuries.

“It’s… adequate,” the Maia concedes. Fëanaro shows him the glow of the crystals. “How do you achieve this effect on the gems?”

There is curiosity mixed with an undercurrent of jealousy.

“For those, it’s just precise stone cutting. They have natural proprieties that make them redirect the light and amplifies it if the angle is right.”

“Is it the technique used for the Silmarils?”

“No. It’s the technique I used for my first experiments in gems and light. It’s inferior in a lot of ways to the Silmarils despite the level of skill actually required to obtain this effect. But,” the gem-crafter quickly adds, before Mairon has the nerve to accuse him of crafting lesser pieces when he could do much better, “my more advanced techniques are unusable here. None of the gems and crystals you gave me were suited, and you are lacking the proper equipment. They were not needed anyway, since these gems, as they are, already have the propriety you wanted.”

Mairon watches him like a hawk, but Fëanaro gives nothing out, and the Maia finally relents.

“You will show the necklace to Lord Melkor in a few hours. Clean up and put on your best clothes. Considering the quality of your work and the disappointment it will elicit, you will need all the aid your pretty face can provide to avoid punishment.”

“Would _you_ be able to replicate this _low quality_ piece, Mairon?” Fëanaro retorts. The smith sends him a seething glare.

“Of course I can.”

“Really? Because it looks like to me I was more advanced as a jewel maker when I was two hundred years old than you are right now. You are aware that this technique, while not my most complicated one, still requires quite a level of mastery?”

The Maia is on him in less than a blink of an eye, his hand grabbing his neck like a vice.

“Are you implying that I am an _inferior crafter_ , elf? That your talent not only rivals mine, but exceeds it?”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen anything meaningful made by your hands yet,” Fëanaro replies. “What do _you_ think?”

The pun his rewarded by a sudden, white hot rush of pain. The agony surges from his spine and spreads to his whole body. It’s like he’s burning from the inside, continuously; for how long he doesn’t know. One second, forever, it’s the same: his mind simply stops, unable to process. He’s left crumpled on the ground, breathing hard, throat hoarse from a scream he didn’t even hear. His body is trembling uncontrollably, tears streaming; he’s hysterical, as he was when the news of his father’s death was broken to him.

Fairëliantë was right. Even the best orgasm is weak in intensity compared to this pain. He is cold with terror at the thought of _burning_ that way again. He weeps when he thinks that Maitimo may endure such torture himself.

His guard is the white haired one adorned in gold. Fëanaro searches his gaze. Surely, an elf like himself cannot bear to witness the suffering of another and do nothing! But nothing there is: the face of the ner doesn’t even twitch, and there is no pity in his dull eyes.

The king curses himself for his weakness. He survived Finwë’s death. What is the suffering of his body compared to the agony of his soul? Will he truly admit defeat for mere seconds of pain?

He forces his breathing back to regularity. The ache in his limbs recedes, allowing him to stand again. In any case he should stop angering Mairon needlessly and focus on escaping.

First, he has to present the necklace to Moringotto.

***

[Trigger warning for rape. To skip the scene jump to “Nothing ever prepared him for this.”]

The necklace is presented to Moringotto on a purple cushion by Mairon himself. Fëanaro is alone with them in a relatively small room, clothed in elegant black and red, braided as if to walk the palace of Tirion.

He isn't going to try foolish provocation again.

The Vala has decreased in size since their first meeting in the throne room. His slenderer fingers allow him to follow the intricate design, his eyes alight with pleasure and greed. Despite all his lavish offers, Fëanaro always refused to work for him, and this is the first piece made deliberately for his foe.

“Definitely not your best work, Fëanaro, but I guess the conditions are less than ideal for your artistic genius to show. It's still very beautiful, and worthy of a king. Have you seen the finesse of the engraving, Mairon? The perfect equilibrium in the placement of the gems? And those curves?”

Fëanaro shivers in disgust. Seeing these blackened fingers caressing his creation is almost like feeling them on his skin. Even the white, pure light of the Silmarils reflecting on the white stones can't clean the filth.

“I like those curves. You should copy this design, Mairon. Those squares angles and sharp lines of yours are soulless compared to them. They remind me of those dwarven weapons. If you have to find inspiration somewhere, at least take it from a noble race.”

The smith bows respectfully, but the glare he throws Fëanaro is less than gentle. It comes at no surprise that the patterns engraved everywhere are Mairon's, for they remind Fëanaro of Aulë; a twisted, more constricted version of his esthetic preferences. Still, to call them soulless is another proof that Moringotto truly is a tasteless fool. In the last days, Fëanaro developed a grudging respect for the motifs; he doesn't know which ones yet, but he is certain there are mathematical formula shaping them, and appreciates that they work well on fabric, leather, metal and stone. That the Vala isn't even worthy of his own Lieutenant is oddly satisfying.

“Let's see it on skin. Put it on.”

Fëanaro freezes. He's the only quendë in the room and Mairon is far too tall to try the necklace on. His own tunic, however, is very high necked (interestingly enough, he was only given high necked clothes), and there's absolutely no way he can try anything without taking it completely off. Standing half naked in front of Moringotto is not what he hoped would happen.

“Well?” Moringotto asks, as Fëanaro doesn't move to obey. The black power dissects his discomfort with barely hidden glee. “Do you need help undressing or what? Should I ask Mairon to rip the clothes off your back?”

“No. I can do it myself, thank you.” Maitimo's bloodied face flashes in his mind, and he quickly adds: “Lord Melkor.”

He knows he won't be able to stop the Maia if he decides to “help” and would like to keep at least a modicum of dignity. He unbuttons the outer layer, slowly, and carefully folds it on a nearby table. The tunic underneath has a round neckline, hugging his neck too closely, and Fëanaro has to take it off as well. The air around him is warm enough, but he stills shivers when it comes in contact with his naked skin.

The necklace is cold, made colder still by the silver light the gems emit while in contact with his skin. Fëanaro doesn't like the feel of it; he finds high necked clothes stifling, and high necked jewelry choking, like the collard of a dog. The piece hangs down his back and chest and makes him look like a glorified courtesan. He regrets having braided his hair so carefully.

“You are very beautiful.”

The tip of his ears turns red with shame. He doesn't want to be found beautiful by Moringotto, and if this is his definition of beauty, he doesn't feel complimented in any way. It's vulgar, at best. He can't bear to say anything that would sound pleasing.

“Undress. Completely. I want to see you naked.”

“Why?” he croaks more than he asks. This is a nightmare. “The necklace...”

“I want to see _you_ naked. Utterly defenseless, wearing a collar made by you at my demand. _Mine_.”

The smile on the Vala's face is predatory. The quendë feels bile rising up his throat. He has never been overly prude before, but it's not a habit of the Noldor to show their skin so freely. Furthermore, the encounter feels more and more sexual. He was married young and his whole sexual life, nowhere as scandalous as most people imagine, always revolved around Nerdanel. The very idea of...

But what choice does he have?

His fingers tremble, but he obeys, his whole face and neck pink and hot. He is disgusted by the perverted glee on Moringotto's face, and not one bit reassured by Mairon’s embarrassed expression. It's not as if his fellow smith is going to help him anyway.

“Come here.”

The noldo takes a few steps forward. The air feels colder. The Vala lifts a finger and traces the golden swirls on his chest.

“You should always be like this, Fëanaro. Only precious metals and gems befit someone like you. Bracelets of gold. Sleeves of delicate chains. A red, beating ruby on your heart.” He tangles his fingers in the ebony hair. “Diamonds for you hair, like stars. I will make you as beautiful as Varda.”

Fëanaro wants to pull out in revulsion, but Moringotto snakes an arm around his waist, hard as marble, far too strong to resist. The monster is moaning in his hair (my Varda, my Varda, mine, mine mine mine), so engrossed in his own false dreams he's not even seeing that Fëanaro is trying to escape his grasp, his breath, the growing (far to huge) arousal against his legs. He doesn't hear his protestations even as the noldo begs (please please stop just stop no no no no) and cries and grows hysterical when the clawed fingers handle him like a mindless doll. When it’s clear that he won’t stop at sniffing his hair.

It takes Mairon's protestations to make him halt.

“Master!” He bows very low. “You will kill him if you take him. His body isn't strong enough for the might and power of the True King of Arda.”

The Vala grabs Fëanaro by the hair and pulls him away, watching his face as if discovering it for the first time: the glowing eyes reddening with tears, his dripping nose, quivering lips, terrified gaze, corpse-white skin. For the first time he sees Fëanaro being weak instead of fiery, proud, charming or angry. He notes all of this with disgust and contempt and stands up, throwing him to the ground as he does, not even bothering to push him off his knees. Fëanaro scrambles to the wall and grabs the first piece of clothing he can hide behind.

Nothing ever prepared him for this. Not his long life as a crafter, his intellectual prowess, his studies on Middle Earth (how ridiculous those are in retrospect!). He had believed, foolishly, that his travels to the limits of Valinor and hunts in the woods of Oromë had made him tough. He had though his mother's death had made him know grief. He had been proved wrong when Finwë was ruthlessly murdered. His mastery of himself and others crumbled in Alqualondë. He knew fear and fought it with rage.

But now there is no rage. The white phantom of Miriel has deprived him of the driving madness, purged him, turned him back into who he was in Valinor. Without the madness he can't but fear the pain, the brutality, and see how Moringotto's power is impossible to resist head on. He can't live through being tortured, humiliated and raped. He can't live knowing Maitimo may be next if he doesn't comply.

He feels as impotent as a child watching his mother die.

He feels cheated that Finwë indulged his childish fantasies about their former lands. His father knew Middle Earth and war, he knew how hard, how terrible it was, and all he ever did was smile sadly every time his son presented him with a new book. He feels cheated by all those “old” elves who fed them with the nicest stories and kept silent on the true threats from the Shadows.

He should never have come here.

Mairon breaks his train of thought by throwing what remains of his clothes at his head.

“Get dressed.”

He obeys with trembling hands and ends up following the Maia with a half buttoned tunic. The necklace dangles from the smith's hand, half crushed, and Mairon throws it to the fire once they arrive in the workshop.

“You are lucky. Once Lord Melkor lets go of an obsession, he doesn't come back to it. Now that he has seen that you aren't anything more than an overrated brat, he won't turn his attention back to you. How he could even compare you to Varda is beyond me.” A mocking smile curves his mouth. “Who knows? He may turn to your son next. My Lord set his eyes on Arien once, his fiery hair may remind him of her.”

Fëanaro's fingers are struggling to straighten his clothes. They stop like dead spiders.

“Please, no.” There is desperation in his voice. “Please, not my son. I'll...” What does he even have to offer? “I accept your dare. I'll find a name for you. Let's say we both win. You owe a favor to me and I promise I will open my mind to you. I'll let you steal all my knowledge from me if you want, if you help me first.”

The smile grows on the fair, golden face.

“And what will you ask of me, fair prince of the wise elves?”

The king (is he even king still?) ignores the derisive tone.

“Let my son out of Angamando.”

“Deal. Your son is nothing to me,” Mairon explains, “compared to what I will win.”

“Swear that you will let him out. Swear twice.”

Twice is biding, Fairëliantë said; Mairon seems surprised he knows. Unless he is just taken aback by how hysterical he sounds.

“I swear with Eru Iluvatar as my witness that I will let Maitimo Nelyafinwë out of Angamando.”

“Again.”

“Swear your part also, noldo.”

“I swear with Eru Iluvatar as my witness that I will let Mairon into my mind once.”

“How generous.”

“Once is sufficient.”

“Fine. I swear with Eru Iluvatar as my witness that I will let Maitimo Nelyafinwë out of Angamando.”

“And I swear with Eru Iluvatar as my witness that I will let Mairon into my mind, one time and one time only.”

 

***

 

Mairon keeps his word, and Fëanaro feels like a fool (a shocked, panicked fool) to have believed there was even a single sincere bone in the Maia's body.

Mairon does “let Maitimo out”: he hangs him to cliff out of Angamando, alone and suffering, cold and ever hungry, his spirit bound like his father's to a body he can’t leave. The smith takes the father to see his son suffering there. He drinks his horrified screams like seasoned wine (“you truly lack experience in the matter of treason, brat”).

Then he takes him down to his chambers and inflicts pain so intense, so gratuitous and undeserved, there is nothing more Fëanaro can do but suffer. One can beg when one has something to offer, or someone to take pity. But Mairon is simply cruel, jealous and hateful, and wants to destroy one who could have been a rival. He shows clearly he isn’t interested in what Fëanaro knows: he doesn’t even bother to collect his part of the deal (“you have nothing to teach me, brat! Nothing!”).

Fëanaro doesn't know how long it lasts. It may be mere minutes, but for the thinning of his malnourished body; perhaps it lasts years or ages. Pain becomes the only horizon of his life, his greatest fear, and when he doesn't actually feel it, he lives in dread, for he never knows for how long he is left alone. Sometimes he dreams of a man with dark hair, grey eyes and a deep voice, but he doesn't know who he is anymore.

Agony and Mairon are the only world left to him.

 


	4. What's your name [Mirfin]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanaro moves in with Mirfin.

Melkor's return was supposed to herald an era of plenty and victories; it is, instead, the most disappointing time of Mirfin's life.

Mairon claims the second battle of Beleriand wasn't a crushing defeat: the God of the gods wanted, first and foremost, the noldorin king captured. It was necessary to lure him far from his troops, to sacrifice soldiers to achieve this goal. Mirfin is sickened by the rewriting of the rout: between the first Battle against Thingol and the second one against Fëanaro, the Tatyarsh lost two thirds of their warriors. A quarter of his beta died of unknown causes, now described as “mind shock”, and his Gashan is dying of the same sickness, having lost no less than six children.

They have lost all lands won in the South. Lammoth has fallen against the troops of Nolofinwë, a rival king of Fëanaro. With Fëanaro came the White Light, and with his half-brother rose the terrible Fire Light which burns the soldiers. Mirfin knows he won't be able to go out without his armor’s helmet anymore, for the light will surely blind him.

The war is an utter disaster. Mirfin asks for the Suh-Luh, the ritual of acceptance of responsibility, but Mairon says it's a victory: no soldier is going to be decimated, no alpha is going to be flogged for failure. It's a sensible decision considering the staggering losses, but an all too visible manipulation.

The aftermath of the battle is hard on the First Singer. He collapses on the returning trip and sleeps for days, leaving his people leaderless behind a fading Gashan. Mairon assures him he fought well. Mirfin knows he owes his survival only to Fluithin.

After a few weeks, he is tasked with organizing surveillance on Fëanaro while he works. The noldo tries to talk to him; Mirfin doesn't answer. He listens to his language, though, and studies him: his height, the strength of his body, the nimbleness of his fingers, the shiny eyes, the way he braids his hair. He knows, by now, that Fëanaro is Miriel and Finwë's son. He would have known even if Mairon hadn't told him: the structure of the face is very much like that of Finwë and one doesn’t need to be a genius to guess the noldorin king would be Finwë’s child. Miriel always liked the name, had told Mirfin his next brother or sister would be called either Fëanaro or Fëanarë. He has his mother’s eyes, made ugly by the light of the West.

Then the watch stops, and Fëanaro disappears.

He's hard to forget, because Fluithin is obsessed with him. She keeps crying for her “baby son” as if she truly was Miriel and the noldo really was her child. Her duties with the children and wounded fall back on the already weakened Gashans. Mairon can't come down anymore without her harassing him to get her baby back, until he finally relents and orders Mirfin to go and get the noldoran out of his hands.

He finds Fëanaro in a lightless cell, a thin carcass, still breathing, but so faintly he looks half dead. He weights nothing when two of his beta put him on stretcher. Mirfin covers him entirely, not wishing anyone to see him. The noldo doesn’t even stir when they take him to Fluithin, when she cries and cradles him in white arms. Mirfin worries for their Mother goddess: it is unusual for her to carry one mother’s face for so long, and she has been Miriel for months now. She caresses her "son's" hair with tenderness and sings lullabies to him.

In the following weeks, Fluithin dedicates all her time to nursing her beloved noldo back to health. Mirfin’s Gashan hardly goes out of their chambers anymore. He tires, doing both his job and hers, in a world where their God of gods his both here and and unreachable, abandoned by their usual gods, Mairon being always needed at Melkor’s side and Fluithin occupied with her “child”.

By the time Mairon comes back to his Mulak and orders him to take Fëanaro, Mirfin is thoroughly fed up with the consequences of having captured the noldo.

“The Lady can’t keep him. He has regained consciousness and is disgusted by her, the ungrateful brat. I can’t deal with both… I can’t deal with Fluithin being hysterical right now. I managed to convince her that Fëanaro needs some time with his own kind. Hopefully she will come back to her old self.”

The Mulak doesn’t even know why Mairon tries to justify himself. Mirfin never questions any of his orders.

“I will care for him as best as I can. I should, however, bring to your attention that my Gashan, Agarin, is not fit for her duties anymore. Should I entrust his well-being to one of her betas?”

The Gashan are responsible for the healers and, as such, Mirfin doesn’t have any authority over them unless the Gashan dies. A dying political mate is the worst situation for him right now: he can’t command them, and she can’t either, which leaves her underlings fighting between themselves to know who will replace her.

“I will enact a temporary law granting you the power of the Gashan. It is fortunate that Agarin is dying, actually. Should he recover, Fëanaro will replace her once she dies.”

Taken aback, Mirfin can only utter a strangled “him?”. He, who brought death to his people? He who brings sadness to their Mother, only to reject her?

“Yes. He is an incredible crafter and has some basic knowledge in medicine. Moreover, he is a fast learner. I have no doubts he will acquire quickly what he doesn’t already know.”

“Isn’t he an infidel? Did he renounce his loyalties to the West?”

“Until you deem his faith to be true, you will be the sole Great Priest for the Tatyarsh. As for his loyalties, he is not the vanguard of the west as we thought, but a rebel who fled from Valinor. They cursed him and he cursed them back. I do expect him to try to run away, and the experiment not to work at all. In that case I am expecting efforts rather than results from you.”

“As always I will do my best to please you and our Mother, Great Smith.”

“I know,” Mairon assures him with a smile. “I know.”

 

***

It's been a long time since Mirfin had any concubine. The quarters built for them are empty, at least until they settle here the nervous creature who is supposed to be his brother.

Fëanaro is still very thin, though less than before, and his grey eyes look too big for his gaunt face. Their light draws the gaze to them and their unhealthy glow, to the deep shadows under them and their constant darting to the noldo's surroundings. Much like a trapped cat, he's searching for places to hide and ways to escape; it's futile, Mirfin having clasped a sturdy manacle to his left ankle. His hair, kept short when Mirfin fought him, has grown up to his waist, far too quickly considering the two years he spent in Angamando: Fluithin tends to have strange effects on those she heals.

Mirfin watches him silently at first, seated on a leather cushion at the opposite end of the room. His charge seems bothered by the chain despite the heavy fabric draped around the metal to protect his skin, but he's mainly watching him back without daring to meet his eyes.

The Mulak is no expert in dealing with broken creatures. Uruks and animals destroyed beyond measure are put down, liberating their spirit from their sorry states, and the others are guarded and protected by the Mother's wolfish attentions. Mirfin got a pup much like Fëanaro once. She was a descendant of Mairon himself, deserving respect for her blood, but weak in combat and prone to get wounded by her brothers and sisters, so that she became scared of everything, mewling for mercy and biting at will for fear of being bitten first. With Mairon's agreement, Mirfin finally slit her throat after she almost took his hand off.

The tatyarsh stands up and Fëanaro immediately freezes, eyes fixated on Mirfin's chest, watching for any threatening move. He grows increasingly nervous as his brother advances on him and recoils when the elf sits back at arm's length.

“My name is Mirfin. Do you understand?”

He tries to convey the message through mind-speech, but the noldo shudders at the touch and refuses to hear him. Well, without mind-speech and with valarin as their only common language, this is going to be difficult.

The Mulak points to Fëanaro and speaks the noldorin name, before pointing at himself and repeating his own.

“Mirfin,” the noldo looks like he tastes the name more than he speaks it. He lets out a string of noldorin words, some that sounds a bit like old words from Mirfin's youth, some sindarin-like, others unknown. It's a question, one the white haired elf doesn't recognize. Fëanaro seems to understand and holds a hand forward, grabbing the ornamented necklace hanging from the Mulak's neck. His thumb circle a stone, a red gem. “Mir? Mirë? Miril?”

_Jewel?_

Mirfin shakes his head. His name is an unimaginative mix of Miriel and Finwë, and Miriel was born and named before anyone discovered gems. In her heart she named him Therin, the same name she gave to sewing, an art she invented during her pregnancy.

Therin is a secret name, though, and Fëanaro doesn't deserve to know of it.

“Mir means...” He frowns. Without osanwë, explaining orally is futile. He takes the gem back, a lamp, and makes the light play on the sharp edges. “Mir.”

Another question. The noldo is so drawn back inside himself that he doesn't even emits thoughts, so that Mirfin cannot even try to understand the general sense of the words. Having a mind that closed amounts to terrible disrespect amongst his people, especially when speaking to a Mulak, but he guesses it can't be helped right now.

“Light?” Fëanaro tries, using a very old word. “Jewel-light? Not jewel?”

“Yes. Light. Jewel-word is...” How can he explain “early” and “late”? There was no past sense in early kenya. He gestures: wait, and comes back with a slate. He draws a line to describe time and places light, jewels and the word mir. Fëanaro nods, and he doesn't look as nervous as before now that his mind his occupied with linguistic.

The noldo grabs a strand of hair.

“Fin?”

“Yes.”

More gibberish, followed by Fëanaro pointing at the lamp.

“Narë.”

“Yes. Your name is Faya-naro.” He shows that narë is a very, very old world, older than mir. “I understand.”

If anything, his charge looks vexed at not getting to explain his own name.

“Fëanaro is mother-name to me,” he says in his oldest elven tongue. “Father-name to me is Curufinwë. Curu is...” he points to his head, his hands and mime doing something. “Making. Thinking. Finwë is father to me. Fin is...” he grabs a strand of hair, “wë means quendë.”

“No. Wë is...” He searches for an old synonymous of “chief”, but Wë at the end of the name used to signify that one was a leader, and they had no other word. “Mulak. Noldoran. Child-name to Finwë is Finn. Finwë is Finn-Noldoran name. Not child-name.”

“No. Finwë is father to me. I know.”

Mirfin takes his slate again and places himself close to Finwë, and Fëanaro very far away in time. The look on his face dares his little brother to contest that, as someone who actually lived when Finwë was young, he knows better than a brat born centuries later.

“Finwë is father to me in Kuivenien. I know more.”

Fëanaro repeats the word “father” as if there is a mistake and Mirfin used a word wrongly, using the sinda for “king” instead. The Mulak doesn't understand why the younger elf is following this train of thoughts, until it hits him that he doesn't look like he knows who he is, despite the fact his name gives him away and is fairly transparent as to who his parents are.

“Brothers to you?” he asks. He shows his hands and mime counting on his fingers.

Fëanaro shows two fingers, and adds two more for sisters.

“Nolofinwë brother to you?”

He nods.

“Nolofinwë and Arafinwë brothers to me.”

Mirfin frowns. None of those names can apply to him. Fëanaro takes the slate away, draws a circle and divides it in two. He repeats “brothers” with a prefix Mirfin doesn't understand but may mean “half”.

“Finwë is father to Nolofinwë and Arafinwë. Miriel is not mother?”

“No. Indis is mother.”

Mirfin mimes “how many” and adds: “children to Miriel and Finwë?”

Fëanaro points to himself.

“Miriel dead,” he adds sadly. He draws a line, very close to his own birth on the timeline. Mirfin is not surprised. Miriel had been very sick after his own birth and never recovered properly. No one could have forced his mother to have another child, though, and so Mirfin knows she decided to risk her life by her own accord. 

But he doesn't understand why Fëanaro speaks of himself as a single child.

Unless no one told him.

His little brother doesn't seem to get it, and is moving to asking whether the tatyarsh are from the tatyar, and explains in broken kenya that the noldor are the tatyar. He is searching for a kinship between them without even guessing that his own blood is watching him in the eyes. Mirfin doesn't even know if he's angry, sad or feels nothing at the erasing of his existence from history. Of course Miriel, if she died when Fëanaro was very young, wouldn't have told him. Before Angamando, the adults kept a lot of things from the children, thinking they were too weak to understand. But what of Finwë? What excuses did his wretched father have?

It was all in the past. Another life. Mirfin doesn't belong with them anymore anyway.

He doesn't want to talk about the Tatyarsh and the Noldor. No, he answers harshly, the Tatyarsh aren't the Noldor. The Noldor are Finwë's thing, the fools he dragged to his accursed light. The Tatyar had been so much more! Mirfin knows some are living in Ossiriand now, and most living far in the east.

“Why are you here? Why come to this place?”

“Finwë dead,” the former king answers. The words sounds like they strangle him. “Melkor kills Finwë”

 _Good_.

“I do not understand.”

“Finwë is father to me.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because Melkor killed Finwë!”

And now Fëanaro glares with utter disbelief, as if he can't understand that his father's death isn't logically linked with him coming here in Mirfin's mind.

“Melkor took Silmarilli to me. Silmarilli are...”

“I know. Bad Light from West.”

Mirfin looks disgusted, Fëanaro disgruntled.

“No. Silmarilli are good, white light. Like stars. Very good.”

“No. Light from West is bad. Light from West in stones is bad. Bad to spirit.”

“Who speaks this?”

“I speak this. Light from West is bad to spirit. Bad to you.”

“You do not know. You go not to the West.”

“Finwë goes West. Finwë goes back. Spirit to Finwë is bad from Light from West. I know. What do you know? You do not know life from no bad Light.”

Mairon helps him, his mastery of kenya is growing worse by the minute. He must keep his calm. Fëanaro isn't Finwë, he never had any chance to know better. Fluithin always says one shouldn't punish a child for something he can't know; Mairon agrees with her, only he usually adds that once the mistake has been done and explained, it's alright to beat a child who trespasses again. Fëanaro is like a child who hasn't been taught properly.

What irks the Mulak is that the noldo seems to be thinking exactly the same about him.

“You not talk bad about father to me. Finwë is very good king and quendë,” Fëanaro warns him, only he's far too weak right now for Mirfin to feels threatened, and their bad kenya makes him sound ridiculous. Mirfin snorts with disdain.

“Finwë is spirit-sick because bad light from West. Bad king and bad father and bad mate. You do not know, _child_. Finwë speaks bad words to you.” He holds up four fingers. “Sons to Finwë. Not...” he holds three. “Miriel is good. God mother and good mate and good quendë. Not Finwë.”

How can he explain that Miriel knew, that she never wanted to go West, and left only because she loved Finwë?

But Fëanaro withdraws, looking at him suspiciously, obviously more decided to believe their foolish father than a brother he doesn't know and is nothing more than a jailer to him. He spits a word in his own language and turns his back to him, a gesture for which Mirfin should punish him with the lash, but a child can't be punished the first time he does a mistake he can't understand; and how to explain, since they don't speak the same language and his mind stays resolutely closed?

Mirfin lets out a frustrated sigh and leaves the noldo to his disillusions.

 

***

Working with Fëanaro is exasperating.

Mirfin cannot spend more than an hour per day with him, but it's enough to make him want to strangle Finwë for the mess he made of his little brother. That, and the Mulak lacks the tool to deal with his charge.

Fëanaro is, in turn, an intelligent student, making incredible progresses in language with Mirfin and the beta tasked with teaching him the Holy tongue; a stubborn opponent obsessed with Finwë; a worried father and king and, sometimes, a scared animal paralyzed by his most basic instincts. Of all his phases this one is the worst for Mirfin. He doesn't know how to deal with the trembling body, the vacant eyes, the constricted throat which impairs his speech.

When Fëanaro is in this state, reason and words can't reach him. Mirfin tries to treat him the only way he knows: like a wayward pup to be domesticated. The first time Fëanaro freezes, he lets him be, because he doesn't know what to do. The second time he pets his head in a soothing manner even as the noldo recoils under the touch. The third time his brother accepts the touch with a tensed immobility. After that, the elda almost leans in, and the crisis seem shorter and less violent. He brings him food and water himself and takes the time to brush and braid his hair.

He doesn't tell Fëanaro he gives him child braids.

Everytime the elf annoys him, Mirfin reminds himself he can't be considered as an adult. An adult can speak and write perfectly, and Fëanaro cannot; an adult knows how to bear pain, and the noldo doesn't. An adult knows how to be polite, properly submissive and how to follow the rules of the society he lives in: Fëanaro is neither of those and can't even grasps the concept of common good, proud as he is to have caused the death of hundreds of thousands for the sake of a single being. Whatever Mairon says, Mirfin can't picture his charge as a future Gashan, his ally and equal. If anything his bad leadership of the Noldor should disqualify him altogether for the charge of guide of the Tatyarsh.

He decides to free Fëanaro from the manacle after a month. His behavior has grown more agreeable lately, and he can't keep him forever tied anyway. He locks his door, though, but it's still a good reward.

The next morning, Mirfin finds the door open and Fëanaro gone.

 

 

 


	5. A way out [Fëanaro]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanaro tries to escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nolofinwë : Fingolfin

Fëanaro didn't really think this through, but the lock on the door proved too easy to pick not to take advantage of it.

Slipping out of Mirfin's house is surprisingly simple. There's no guard inside, and the one outside isn't watching for people going out. The next part is going to be harder: Fëanaro is too tall, and his eyes stand out dramatically in a sea of dullards. He has to reach the closest slave settlement. The man who cleans his room, a small and fearful sinda ready to sell his mother for some of Fëanaro's food, described in great details the path to follow, and the noldo manages well enough without being seen. There he steals some nondescript clothes (too small for his frame) and smears grimes on his face. He braids his hair in a single plait that he hides under a dirty shawl. He can't do anything for his eyes but hopes to pass for a common noldorin slave.

He needs to go to the mines. The slave told him the mines are the worst jobs to get, but that the noldor are numerous there. Fëanaro hopes to find support among his people: his subjects are strong both in body and will, and he expects them to have already started hoarding weapons. With them he is optimistic that he can break out.

The streets look highly hierarchized. The slaves walk as close to the walls as they can, while the soldiers have the sides. The middle is left empty, most probably reserved to the occasional beta and alphas. Fëanaro walks with his head down, not looking at anyone, stopping only occasionally to ask for directions to fellow prisoners. His steps take him lower and lower in the belly of Angamando.  He squints at the permanent lack of light; the uruks, who see well in darkness, need very few lamps, but the elves of Valinor are used to brighter landscapes. Most of the streets are actually illuminated with some kind of fluorescent green moss growing on the ceiling and glowing blue mushrooms on the floor.

It's not difficult to keep track of time since there are clocks on every great squares and gongs ringing each hour. Fëanaro has been walking for a few hours, enough to feel like he may actually do it, when a clawed hand grabs his arm. He has to remind himself to keep his eyes to the ground and his head bowed. The hand is dark and greasy, but the noldo doesn't know if the color is natural or if, like Mirfin, there's some kind of makeup involved. The animalistic nails, though, can't be anything but a physical deformation, much like those of the soldiers he fought with his people during the battle under the stars.

“Where are you going, slave? You're in a hurry for a lazy lightelf, going around carrying nothing!” The beast laughs. Warm drops of spit land on Fëanaro's face; he turns to stone to keep his hand from wiping his cheeks.

“To the mines,” he answers in a small and submissive voice, but he must have got something wrong (a word mistaken for another, a polite greeting unknown to him), because the soldier punches him hard in the belly.

“How dare you talk in such a disrespectful manner to one of your betters? Who do you think you are?”

 _The king of the noldor and destroyer of your people, you fool_.

“I'm sorry.”

Another hit to his shoulder. What did he do wrong this time? Is he supposed to get on his knees and lick its toes? He can't fight back. A slave being beaten on the side of the road isn't remotely interesting to the other soldiers, but a slave riposting his bound to attract attention. Fëanaro pushes back the growing panic and the memories of Mairon. He can't lose it now. How would the damn Mulak want him to react?

Like a beaten dog, most probably. Mirfin always treats him as if he were a talking animal or a child.

He curls on the floor, eyes closed to hide the anger, and at least the uruk calms down. Once he gets out of here, he'll kill as many of those twisted creatures as he can.

“Who do you belong to?”

The uruks and the younger alphas and betas all have names in the Black Tongue, mostly common nouns. Fëanaro answers with a random name that may or may not actually belong to a real person. He doesn't expect the soldier to know everyone.

“I've got no idea who he is,” the uruk says with glee, “which means he's no one important and I don't have to care if he misses you. T'will serve him right for leaving his slave idling in town.”

It grabs his braid (why do they always have to go for the hair?) and drags him out of the street. At least, if it's taking him to a more private spot, Fëanaro may be able to kill it and steal its weapons. But the uruk seems to like to share and they end up being followed by half a dozen of filthy creatures that the noldo will never be able to dispatch without raising the alert.

The uruk is bragging, but most of the vocabulary he uses is unknown to Fëanaro. The meaning, however, becomes a lot clearer when the creature starts to untie its breeches.

To Mandos with discretion! Moringotto's depravity was bad enough, he's not going to get raped or even touched by the lowliest, most disgusting of beasts! From his position on the ground, Fëanaro launches both feet forward. One hits the uruk in the belly while the other crushes its dangling parts with full force. A blood-freezing screech explodes from the beast's chest. It folds to the ground, panting, while one of its companion takes out a knife and starts to advance.

Fëanaro crouches, ready for a fight.

“You shouldn't do it. I belong to the Mulak Mirfin. He'll kill you if you dare touch me.”

“You're a filthy liar!” It answers, but it's careful. Obviously, it knows Noldor are stronger than Uruks, and fear that the Elda may overcome, even without a weapon. “The Mulak will whip you to death for your disobedience!”

“Shut up!” Another beasts interrupts him with a fearful face. “He's telling the truth. The Mulak is on his way.”

So that was it. His first escape, ending in a filthy alley, trapped by monsters he could have slayed easily if he only had a sword, waiting for Mirfin to come and get him back. Knowing the Mulak he is most probably going to grab him by the ear like a child. He'll probably get that wretched manacle back too.

They wait for a long time before Mirfin's arrival.

The uruks make way for him and kneel, their head bowed to the ground in a most abject manner. Fëanaro stands proudly, his eyes firmly fixed to the other's face.

The Mulak asks what happened. Fëanaro opens his mouth to speak, to say that these... things tried to attack him and he merely defended himself, but Mirfin glares with such coldness after the first words that he falters.

The uruks explain that they saw him idling in the street, that an idle slave is fair game, that he lied when asked for his owner. They didn't know he belonged to the Mulak and of course they would have let him be if they had. They weren't even going to hurt him, indeed, and he hit one of them before they even started. They just wanted some fun, they wouldn't have crippled him in any way.

Mirfin then turns to him, and Fëanaro merely tells him that they tried to attack him, so of course he defended himself, and since he's unarmed and unarmored, he's clearly not the threatening one here.

Everyone (including the beasts) glare at him in disbelief.

“This is my judgement,” Mirfin says, and by then the altercation had attracted quite an audience. “For abusing Lady Fluithin's propriety,” the beasts shake. Apparently, hurting a goddess’s slave is worse than harming Mirfin's. “You will receive ten lashes, considering that the slave lied about his identity and wore no markings of ownership. All witnesses of the scene will receive five for passive participation.”

“For lying about your status,” Mirfin then tells Fëanaro, “ten lashes. For lying about your master's identity, ten lashes. For disrespecting an uruk while assuming the status of a slave, ten lashes. For hitting an uruk while still assuming the status of a slave, fifty lashes. For disrespecting your Mulak by talking out of turn, fifty lashes. My judgment is one hundred and thirty lashes. However, considering my own responsibility in failing to properly teach you the rules and ways of our society, I invoke the Suh-Luh. As such my final judgement is that you will receive sixty-five lashes, thirty of whom will be inflicted by the uruk you attacked and thirty-five by myself.”

Fëanaro doesn't remember the flogging past the first five hits. He doesn't fight it because he knows any resistance will only add to his pain right now. It's a lesser agony compared to what Mairon can unleash, but it awakens the memory of it, and the phantom of this suffering freezes his mind.

He “wakes” only hours later. He's back in his room, tied by the ankle, laying on his belly. Someone bandaged his back and gave him some medicine that now burns his stomach. An elf with chestnut hair is replacing the lock. Only when the beta leaves does he allow himself to cry from pain and disappointment. The sobs wake the ache of his back.

Finally, he falls asleep or passes out again.

When he wakes, Mirfin is sitting on the floor next to his bed, cross-legged, his bare chest covered with bandages.

“What happened to you?” he asks.

If anything, the question seems to annoy Mirfin.

“The Suh-Luh allows an uruk of higher rank to take upon himself part of the punishment of his subordinates, if he is at least partly responsible for their mistake. I took half your hits in order not to kill you.”

“You look fine.”

The statement was supposed to be spiteful but comes out dull.

“I know how to take pain with dignity.” His hairless brows frown. “Do you know how ashamed I am right now, Fëanaro?”

“Because I tried to escape? You didn't expect me to?”

“Of course I did, but I expected your attempt to prove your worth, not to be a flagrant display of both stupidity and weakness! What were you thinking when you tried to pass as a slave, and a bad one at that, dressed as if you wanted their attention? At least you could have shown that you have bravery, but did you? A true warrior would take at least thirty leashes without flinching!”

“Are you actually angry that I got caught?” Fëanaro lets out a mirthless laugh. “What next? Am I supposed to thank you for the torture as well?”

“It's called justice and being responsible for your own actions, a concept you seem to have difficulties with considering that you started a full-scale war for your own petty interests. If you do something against the laws, the people or fail because of incompetency, it's normal that you should be punished for it. And yes, I am angry. You endangered yourself, my own worth through our blood ties, my authority, and the very fabric of the law since I am not allowed to kill you. Do you understand that your actions have repercussions greater than your own self?”

“Justice? Where was justice when your god made me suffer for fun? How are my interests petty when I waged war for a man who was not only my father but my king? And what blood ties do you dare to invoke?”

“I told you before, and you wouldn't believe it. I am a son of Finwë and Miriel.”

“What do you hope to achieve with this lie?”

“Lie? What proofs do you have that I lie? Finwë's silence? Is something false just because your father failed to tell you it existed? What proofs do you have that I tell the truth? I sang of Miriel and her face is one most beloved by Fluithin, who clads herself only with the appearance of her children's mothers. _I have been named after them_. So tell me, aren't there more proofs of you being of my blood than of the contrary?”

“Your very behavior proves you wrong! What brother would treat his own like you treat me?”

“That's rich coming from the man who abandoned his little brother to cross the Icy Lands! I punish you because you are worth less to me than the conservation of my people and the laws that are necessary to the existence of society. My “cruelty” toward you is not gratuitous. I'm doing my duty as a Mulak. You were king, surely you can understand that whatever affection I may feel toward you cannot come first.”

“Do I deserve everything that happens to me then? Tell me, Mulak, do I deserve what Mairon did to me? The weeks he spent torturing me for _nothing_ , asking me _nothing_ , because he was _jealous_ of me and my achievements and felt threatened? He didn't do it to punish me for the war or the battle, he did it because I _exist_ and _he could_.”

“Mairon is stern but fair. He would never do such a thing.”

A laugh (mad, hurt, more like a sob gone wrong) rips his throat. It’s deserved then. Perhaps the Valar were right when they said he was marred from birth, an error of nature bound to commit great evils. Perhaps there’s actually some unknown, noble design etched into Mairon’s gratuitous torture, born from the Song, with the purpose of punishing him for his marred existence.

Or perhaps this place is really a madhouse, and he’s only one of the poor souls getting crushed by it.

“You know what? You’re right. Whatever you say. I agree with you, so I’ll just remove the stain of my presence. You said I belong to Fluithin, right? Then go fetch her and tell her: as Miriel did, I want to die. I want to die _permanently_. I don’t care what happens to my soul once it’s done as long as this suffering _stops_.”

Fëanaro thought to take his pretended-brother aback, but Mirfin only watches him with a gravity not unlike Finwë’s. The noldo laughs again. If this is a truth and this elf really is Finwë and Miriel’s son, how ironic that he reminds him more of Nolofinwë than of himself!

“Is that what you want? To die and be erased?”

“Yes. What other choices do I have anyway? Your precious Mairon was very clear that if I die I’ll just stay here. I’m tired of this place.”

“You are aware that your soul will most likely be reincarnated. Your new body…”

“I don’t care. If I get a final whish just tell them I want to be a cat. They look like they are the only ones who have a good time here.” He chuckled. “That would please your master, wouldn’t it? To have me, useless and stupid, purring on his laps while he scratches my ears?”

“If it is what you want, then I shall relay your wishes, though I find it sad that you would give up so quickly. I know my expectations are high, and our culture not well adapted to the weak but…”

He wants to scream that he isn’t weak; he’s just sick of the contradictory demands. Be more disciplined, stronger, meeker, better at escaping, a better crafter, no crafter at all, submissive and more strong-willed. Be a better king, be no king, be a genius, stop being special, I love how passionate you are, can’t you see you’re tiring me, you’re too much, stop being _mad_! All of those at the same time? He’s tired of being required to be everything and less than himself.

He’s not weak. He’s not mad. It’s too easy for everyone to just point and pretend he’s not like everyone else, that they can have higher expectations because he’s the greatest (and who pretended that Fëanaro was in the first place?) of them.

“I’m just a normal person, Mirfin. Are you even aware that what he did –what you just did to me, no normal person raised in a normal family, among normal people would bear it?”

“I would like you not to define the norm by the standards of Valinor. They are rules imposed to you by the Valar, who are false gods and kept you from your true nature as an elf. I am merely trying to rectify what they did to you, the weakening of your natural will. I know it will not be easy but…”

“Stop. Just. Stop.” What he wants is the acknowledgement, at least, that he’s… what, a victim? He doesn’t want to think himself as such, but can his experience there be defined as anything else that victimhood? Yet Mirfin only sees all of this as some kind of twisted education. He’s not even a sadist. There’s some kind of weird nobility in his readiness to be hurt for his sake, but this very acceptance of suffering isn’t allowing the Mulak to understand that it’s not the normal course of things, that living creatures are meant to avoid pain instead of accepting its existence.

He won’t help him, because he doesn’t even see the wrongs.

“You said you would relay my wishes to die. Please, do so. I do not think there’s anything left we could say to each other.”


	6. The Marring of Arda [Fëanaro]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanaro and Mairon have a long talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Namo: Real, but less common name of Mandos  
> Angainor: A magical chain crafted by Aulë to bind Melkor  
> The Avari : The elves who refused to go to Valinor.  
> Thauron: Sauron with "proper fëanorian orthography".

Fëanaro doesn’t have to wait long for the answer. Mirfin shows up the next morning with a summon and tries to explain the proper protocol to him, but the noldo couldn’t care less. He isn't interested in showing respect to the maia anymore. He believes no lip service is going to keep Mairon from hurting him. If his apathy annoys the Mulak, for once he refrains from lecturing him about proper behavior.

He moves slowly and with care. Uruk medicine heals but does nothing to dull pain. Despite the salves and his own strong, valinorean constitution, his back is hurting horribly and makes him lightheaded.

They are escorted by four _betas_ , all armed warriors. This time they walk in the middle of the street and everyone makes way for them. They stride up, toward the Great Plaza.

“The other quendi from Middle Earth call us the Seventh Tribe, because those you call Avari have six tribes in the east. We are divided into fourteen Nations, each led by a Mulak and a Gashan, who live in the Inner Circle, so that we can all have quick, physical access to Mairon.”

The white-haired elf’s silence allows him to react or ask questions if he so wishes, but Fëanaro lacks the interest to do so. His usual curiosity sleeps somewhere deep into his mind, and he cannot think of anything but the dread of meeting Mairon.

“The Plaza is separated in three tiers. On your left is the House of the Mother, where the Lady Fluithin resides. On your right is the House of the Dead, the mansion of the Lady Fairëliantë. In the center of the plaza is the Temple of the God of the Gods, dedicated to the cult of Melkor. The House of Knowledge is behind it. All three houses have been built following the same plans with balance and symmetry in mind. As you can see, all three facades of the Temple are identical.”

And of course everything was designed by Mairon, and carved on Mairon’s orders, down to the fantastic sewage system. Fëanaro considers asking Mirfin to shup up, but he guesses he is not ready to stomach the fifty lashes for being rude to him.  

The House of Knowledge looks deceptively small from the outside. Because everything is carved into the mountain, guessing the real volume of each building is often impossible. The House may be as big as the royal palace of Tirion or even bigger, and since Fëanaro cannot decipher the indication panels on the wall, it feels like a huge maze. Thankfully for his aching body, Mairon’s chambers are near the entrance, dramatically located at the top of a great staircase.

“You go alone. Remember what I said about the proper greetings.”

“What do you mean? You are not coming?”

“No. Formal requests for the termination of life are strictly personal. My role in this is only to inform Mairon of your desire to file such a request.”

The noldo grows cold with fear. Somehow, he believed Mirfin’s presence would keep the maia’s sadism at bay, at least a little. He has concluded from their previous conversations that Mairon likes to give himself the appearance of a fair leader. Without the Mulak to witness the meeting, though, he is deprived of this precarious shield.

Fëanaro still has pride, and it is, ultimately, what drives him to walk forward. He knows Mirfin will not be moved to help and he will not lower himself to beg or wait to be pushed inside. He tries to look dignified and brave; he’s depressed that he has to fake qualities that used to be a natural part of himself.

Mairon’s office is tastefully decorated. Rich carpets and carved walls embrace masterfully crafted furniture of wood, a rare occurrence in Angamando. The lightening is few and the shadows deep. They remind him of a peculiar type of paintings that were very fashionable in Tirion in the last years before his exile, born of a bizarre fascination for darkness in their too-bright world. Mairon himself could have fit well in one of these piece of art, with his rare shade of hair, gold skin, and perfectly chiseled face. His whole being drinks the warmth of the fire and glows with it, not the golden or silvery radiance of Valinor, but the light of burning things, reflected in amber eyes.

He sits by a desk, his finger handling a metallic stylus with studied grace. He slowly puts it down, parallel to the sheets he was writing on. Everything is placed in an orderly, well thought fashion: the ink pot, the few ornaments, down to a crystal skull so delicately chiseled that it could have belonged to a living creature.

The whole setting feels rehearsed. Fëanaro can see its beauty and finds it scarier than mere brutality. Melkor, even at his best, was always rough, untarnished charm. He smelled of natural wonders and disasters. His mere presence made everything _more_ : fires burned hotter, violent wind raged, and Fëanaro felt like Fëanaro brought to the power of ten.

The noldo remembers quite well his first meeting with the Vala. He was one of the very few who was strongly against his releasing, but he doubted his own solitary position. Like most Eldar, he had believed the Valar infallible, but how could they be both infallible and wrong? _Paranoid_ , people whispered, _faithless, arrogant_. Too full of himself to listen to the words of a Vala and learn from him.

At time, Fëanaro had wondered if he rejected Melkor because he distrusted him, or because the rest of the world pressured him to meet him against his will.

He never came to Melkor. The Vala came to him unannounced (doubtlessly believing that Fëanaro would have gone away if he had known; he was not wrong in his belief), a bright smile on his face, barging into his forge like an ox in a glass shop. The smith had been working on a dueling sword, the blunted and very light ones they made for sport before they started to make them to truly _hurt_. He can remember the design no more (it seems ridiculous now that they have real ones), only that the moment Melkor came in, the furnace blazed so hot the blade was spoilt, half melted, and Fëanaro backed instinctively away to avoid being scorched.

He had felt fear, then, disproportionate for such a little thing. He was impossibly angry, amazingly curious at what could have caused this reaction, out of air and aroused by this smile, the smell of the fake flesh, the ageless eyes, the sheer _power_. Melkor made him feel more, so much more, that once Fëanaro had thrown him out of his forge (led by the rage of a hundred hours of works destroyed), he had feared such intensity. People used to say he was too passionate and excessive, as an excuse for their petty dislike of him, but this, _this_ was passionate, _this_ was himself brought to the pinnacle of everything. He saw in his head the marvels he could bring into the world with the increased speed of his mind and the strengthening of his will, hotter fires and a tireless body. He had needed days to feel the craving wear off, days spent fighting the crushing desire to run after the Vala and soak in his presence one more time.

He promised himself never to meet him again, for fear of addiction and servitude.

Mairon doesn’t compare to Melkor. He is polished and controlled to the core. To imagine him knocking anything over is impossible. He is certainly a visionary, but one who makes everything fit into very precise boxes.

Now, Fëanaro wonders how many parts of him Mairon will break to make him fit.

 “Sit,” the maia orders, gesturing toward an elegant, yet comfortable high chair. “You and I have much to discuss today, therefore I expect our meeting to proceed with method. You are allowed to ask questions in a polite and constructive manner. You may use this hand-sign to request the right to speak. First, we will deal with what is left of our bet. You promised to find a fitting surname for me.”

“I very much doubt you want to hear such a thing.”

“On the contrary. You have quite a talent for language, good tastes, and the names of your sons betray a reassuring lack of imagination. Furthermore, I will have no obligation to make use of it. You will not be punished.”

Fëanaro believes him not, not after the trick of Nelyo brought “out” of this dreadful place, but he cannot afford to disobey a direct order either.

“Thauron.”

The maia stays pensive, lips forming the word in silence, eerily calm, but instead of the anticipated backlash, he only smiles faintly.

“I like it. You see,” he adds with a charming smirk, “I said I would not punish you, and so I will not. Now, let us move to the second topic on our list. Your Mulak informed me of your request for life termination and memory erasing. I find it pertinent to point that both requests are by law fundamental rights for all my subjects and that I am only allowed to issue positive answers unless I am legitimately led to believe the decision was hasty or enforced by another person. In your case, however, Mulak Mirfin rightfully demonstrated that this right does not apply despite you being considered a subject of this lands rather than a prisoner of war.”

“On what ground?” Fëanaro asks, astonished not by the answer, but by the fact that his backstabbing pretended brother argued _against_ his case and didn’t give him a clue. It is humiliating that he would go behind his back when, his truth, he has no need to.

“On the ground that the right for life termination is a privilege of the subjects of Angamando, meaning your status had to be clarified before we were legally authorized to statute. I accepted to consider you as a subject, since the Lady Fluithin expressed the desire to welcome you and her counsel is worth as much as mine.  Nonetheless, as Mirfin pointed out, you lack several characteristics which would allow us to consider you as a responsible adult capable of rational and educated thinking, which means that you cannot benefit from the fundamental rights of adults and are, instead, under the protection of childhood.”

The noldo opens his mouth, aghast. By the standard of this place time’s count, he stopped being a child millennia ago, and that is not even taking into account his marriage and seven children!

“I’m very curious to know how _Mulak Mirfin_ managed to prove that I am a child.”

_Especially since I am taller than he is._

“Our laws state that a subject can be considered an adult when its body reaches sexual maturity, when it speaks and writes the Language, and when it is able to contribute to our society.”

“And?”

“It occurred to us that you cannot write, and thus cannot be considered as an adult.”

“I invented a _whole alphabet_. This is ridiculous.”

“Then you will have no problem reading this,” he says as he aligns meaningless lines and dots on a clay tablet. It looks short, but Fëanaro must admits he cannot even start to guess. The runes look like nothing he knows. “Since you cannot read your own name, I think we can both agree that you do not qualify.”

“Is it a game for you?” the noldo inquires, red faced with growing anger. “Why do you refuse me this small mercy? I know you hate me, and I hate everything in this place, including you. We could be rid of each other and be done with it.”

“I am always serious when I seat as a judge, Fëanaro.” Mairon’s voice takes an edge of steel. “I also expect my subject to show respect. This is the last time I tolerate such a tone.”

“I am not one of your subject.”

It is a protest, but his tone, at least, sounds a bit more chastised.

“Would you rather be my prisoner? No, I do not think so. The Lady chose you and I don’t have the authority to refuse her wishes. Whether you want it or not, you are now a subject of Angamando and a member of the nation of the Tatyarsh, under your brother’s jurisdiction. Now that this subject is settled…”

Fëanaro does not think the matter settled at all, but he makes the effort of raising his hand instead of rudely interrupting the maia.

“What will you do if I decide to kill myself anyway?”

“You cannot kill yourself. Your spirit is still bound to your body. You will be healed, then punished for going against my orders, and the only thing you will have won is more pain inflicted to yourself.”

“Am I going to be considered as an adult on day?”

“Of course.”

“Should I want to die then, will you be _allowed_ by your laws to refuse my wish?”

“No. But should this matter still be relevant then, it will mean we have failed to make a productive member of this society out of you, so I guess this will be no great loss.”

“You will not try to find legal loopholes again?”

“The matter of your status is not a trivial matter. Not only does it defines your duties, but also the penalties that can be inflicted to you. Children aren’t flogged and adults are forbidden to approach them with sexual demands unless they agree to them. Surely _you_ will see that this status is far more fitting for you than any other, at least for the time being. Mirfin is trying to protect you, not to humiliate you.”

“By depriving me of all agency?”

“What agency? I do not think you had any such thing when you were holed up in a cell. You have two choices, Fëanaro: to adapt or be destroyed. Do not bring Mirfin down with you if you chose the second path. Now, can we move to our next topic? Thank you. I have great matters to explain to you, but before I do, I have to warn you that nothing I will tell you can leave this room. Not even Mirfin will be made aware of this, and you should avoid talking of this with Fluithin, since it would distress her, and certainly not with Fairëliantë, whose loyalties are dubious at best. You should know that should you talk to her, you are endangering someone truly innocent. Melkor will not care, but the Valar will. Now, I suppose you know quite well the Valar’s version of the creation of Arda, its marring, and the wars between them and Melkor.

As a scholar, you know the significance of sources. You should know that in the case of the Music, there is only one reliable source nowadays. Some Valar and Maiar understand the meaning of the Music better than others, but only two of us had a clear understanding of the Music as an event rather than as a meaning: Namo and the Voiceless, because they were the only one who didn’t sing and were mere witnesses. Namo’s testimony, however, is mostly worthless since his memories were partly erased by Melkor during the Spring of Arda.”

“I do not think we were ever told of Melkor attacking him.”

“Of course. I am not sure the other Valar actually know about it, and it was no attack. I was not here and cannot affirm that it happened this way, but Namo was _willing_ to forget. I think he was trying to escape from his duty, but this is mere conjecture.”

“But why ask Melkor instead of Irmo?”

“I doubt Irmo has the power to erase another Vala’s memories, even if he was willing. I also think he would have tried to dissuade him. Melkor, on the contrary, used to believe that everyone should be free to do as he wishes, and if Namo wanted to forget his knowledge of the Music, it was his problem, not Melkor’s. The fact that it would cripple the Valar’s power as a group probably helped. The only things I know is that Namo was willing and Melkor apparently had no ill-intend, but as I said, I was not there.”

“Who witnessed them?”

“The Voiceless. This is why you must never speak of any of this to anyone. Namo’s legitimacy as the Doomsman comes from his supposed knowledge of the Music. He cannoy destroy Melkor, though he tried, but no one will believe Melkor if he claims this knowledge is gone. The Voiceless, on the other hand, is innocent of any crime and cannot defend herself against Namo should he try to harm her.”

“I have never heard of any Vala or Maia using such an epithet.”

“You would not. She is quite forgettable.”

“Yet she is not forgotten by you.”

“No, she is not. We were friends once.”

“Not anymore?”

“We aren't enemies, but we have conflicting loyalties.”

“She is loyal to the Valar, then?”

“Was. She left Valinor with your host. And no, I do not think she ever was loyal to the Valar, but rather to her own ideas of what is good for the quendi – ideas that do not exactly align with mine, but aligned with theirs for a time. The Voiceless is not the topic of today’s discussion, however, and it is not my place to tell you more about her. I do not doubt you will have the possibility to ask her yourself one day. What is pertinent, now, is that she has the sole reliable account of the Music as it happened. She also has the ability to decipher other’s emotion, as she sees them in hues of colors, and thus cannot be misled.

Why am I insisting on this event? The Valar consider that the Music was the first proof of the evil of Melkor. Yet the Voiceless, who not only witnessed the Music as a third party, but can also discern emotions, claims that Melkor was merely “overenthusiastic”. Her words. For a long time she was on somewhat friendly terms with him despite her being able to discern ill intents. Namo himself did not refrain from asking for Melkor’s help at the beginning. I, of course, did not consider him as evil.

It is true that Melkor destroyed many things in our youth, but does that make him evil? Children destroy things all the time without being accused of marring the world. Yes, he destroyed mountains, flattened forests and created rivers of fire, but he was hurting no one while doing so, much less Arda, who possesses no will of its own. We were _all_ doing it, creating and destroying, since most of our creations quickly appeared flawed to us.

It is unfair to Melkor to consider that he was evil while his peers weren’t. Manwë unleashed horrible storms in his youth and Ulmo drowned the earth more than once. Aulë and I created the first volcano and made it explode for fun, while Varda crafted stars and made them burst for the sake of it. The main difference between Melkor and others is that Melkor could do everything. He could command water, though not as well as Ulmo, and make the wind blow, but not as strongly as Manwë. He could make light and stone and plants. In truth he could do nothing as well as the others: he could not make the Trees like Yavanna did, but he could make trees, while Manwë cannot dream of it.

As time passed, the Valar started to envy Melkor. Iluvatar had made them all equal, not in power but in authority, and they started to resent the fact that Melkor, who was more powerful than them and could do everything, did not bother to listen to them. They decided as a group and he did not care to fit, or could not, and often ignored their commands. The group finally elected Manwë as a leader, thinking that he may be able to restrain Melkor.”

Mairon shakes his head, almost sadly.

“Of course, it did not work. Melkor was absent when Manwë was elected King of Arda. If someone was to command others it should be him, not his little brother, who understood the world less than he did. The quarrel remained unsolved by diplomacy and Melkor left for his own kingdom. I followed some time later because I thought that Manwë had no legitimacy, and because I was fascinated by Melkor’s abilities.

In the time that followed, Melkor and the Valar became aware that the Children were coming. The rivalry for Arda turned to rivalry for the Children, since we all grew bored of making mountains and earthquakes. A “peace conference” was organized. Amazingly enough, everyone managed to meet without trying to kill each other in order to discuss the matter of ownership of the Children.”

“ _Ownership_?”

“Did you truly think the Valar wanted you to come to Valinor as guests? It pleased them that your people came willingly, I am sure, but if none had come, they would have taken you anyway. Dogs and birds are nice, but apart from Oromë and Yavanna, the Valar found them quite boring by then. Your kind makes far better pets, or so we thought. The conference, however, was a failure. Melkor claimed Middle Earth belonged to him by right of war, and that everything on it belonged to him, therefor, should the elves awake in his lands, he should be their rightful king.

The conference ended with no agreement reached and both sides readied for the coming conflict. You know the rest: the Valar won and Melkor was brought to Valinor as a prisoner, leaving the Valar free to take the Quendi to their own lands.

There was a parody of a trial. I was not there, but the Voiceless was, and again she claimed that there was no perceivable evil in Melkor.”

“Then why the imprisoning?”

“Firstly, because no one ever listens to the Voiceless. As I said, she is quite forgettable, and not the kind who actively seeks attention. Secondly, because they wanted to have Melkor under control. We may think ourselves superior to you and more powerful, but we also have genuine affection and desires for your kind. The war had brought enormous destruction to the land and we were all scared of destroying the Children before we could even get to know them.

I think it was hard for Manwë to admit that he could kill all of you just by getting angry. If you believe him to be mild mannered, that is because you have never seen what a tornado can do. With time, the Valar started to despise the most extreme, violent aspects of themselves. Gone were the two brothers wreaking havoc in the sky! Now Manwë became the benevolent Vala of birds and soft winds, and Melkor the bringer of tempest!

And so the Valar locked the, as they thought, worst parts of themselves in the palace of Mandos. What happened next I cannot know. I cannot  know if Angainor did it, if the prison did it, if Namo did it, or if all three are responsible, but something happened to Melkor.”

His eyes glow with anger, but not only. There’s a notable discomfort twisting his face, if only so slightly.

“All creatures of Arda are linked to Melkor in some way. You breath air brought by him and Manwë, you drink water created by him and Ulmo, and eat food that grows thanks to him and Yavanna. Some, though, are linked to him more than others: those you call uruks, the creatures he tried to change, his own lands… and those, slowly, started to _rot_. Some springs went sour, the plants that grew in the dark and allowed me to feed my people withered. The deformities became worse. For a long time I thought the Valar had cursed the lands of Melkor… now that he is here, I know the land is not the problem. He’s turning into something else – something that can be called Moringotto.”

“Then your name…”

“Yes. I am rotting as well, and I cannot bear to give the name Mairon to the… _thing_ , growing inside me. Thauron will fit it quite well, I am sure.” A dry chuckle. “It was no pleasing realization, understanding, accepting that. You see, I always fancied myself a very controlled being. I believed Melkor and I were a perfect match, he the power and drive, I the architect directing his passion toward greatness. I believed it still when he came back changed, obsessed by valinorean Light, _broken_. I thought I could still control him until I found a cure, despite the aggression of your people, despite the need to prepare for the coming of the Valar – and trust me, they will come. They will wait for us to destroy each other and will show up as saviors at the last moments, either to finish Melkor or to keep him from winning.”

He shakes his head in a disgusted manner.

“By your standards – or the Voiceless’s, for that matter, I have no morality, I admit this readily. But I do have a rather strict code of conduct. I am a crafter, a loremaster, a creator. I thrive toward technical and scientifical progress. Destroying you the way I did is against everything I believe in. I would use you, control you, _possess_ you, but not break you. Broken things are useless in too many ways. But I was foolish and arrogant. I thought I was above the rot – and thus I let Thauron control me.

I cannot say it won’t happen again. It will. Moringotto is growing stronger and Thauron with him. I now know that fighting both is more than I can deal with. You know this too and are warned. If it happens, if Moringotto notices you again or if I start to turn on you in a way that contradict the laws, then do not think twice and _run_. Go to Fluithin. She will protect you.”

Mairon stands and gestures him to follow him toward a shelf. The soft glow of his hair, eyes and face reverberates on pieces of gold etched into series of vases and other ceramics. The patterns look random, quite unlike anything Mairon usually does.

“Fluithin keeps dropping things she likes. She used to bring them to me for fixing, but some of them never look new again. She wanted to keep them anyway, so I decided to repair them with gold instead.”

“Is that supposed to be a metaphor of me?” Fëanaro asks dryly.

“Not very subtle, was I?”

“No.”

The noldo takes one anyway. It’s a nice idea, more poetic than he would have expected from the maia, and reminds him of what a Teler may do.

“But I like the image better than a pile of ashes.”

 


	7. To yield [Mirfin]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanaro is staying for good, Mirfin is tired, and it's not a nice day in Angband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ki-Barzil : "place of Iron", the name used by the uruks for Angband (since they won't call their country "prison of iron").  
> Agarin : Mirfin's Gashan  
> Lammoth : Empty lands south of the Helcaraxe where Fingolfin arrives, immediatly meeting an army of orcs in battle.

“You backstabbing piece of shit,” Fëanaro half-hisses, half-shouts. “You pretended you were going to help! How did you dare to look me in the eyes while you were plotting to refuse me?”

“I never said I would argue in favor of your request,” Mirfin answers, sternly, and thanks Fluithin that at least, his little brother waited for them to be alone. His new status as a child protects him but he would still deserve quite a trashing for his words, and the Mulak is starting to think pain isn’t teaching Fëanaro anything. “I said I would relay your request, not that I agreed with you.”

“You brought me in front of him knowing he would refuse!”

“Yes, and? Are you going to accuse me of giving you false hopes? I think my behavior gave away that you were going to stay.”

“Why? Why did you do this? Why do you hate me so much?”

“Hate?”

“You deprived me of my only way out!” Fëanaro shouts. He grabs a recipient full of water and sends the pot flying against the wall. Breaking precious furniture, wasting water – does he even know that these things are rarities in Ki-Barzil?

Well, now is perhaps not the best time to lecture the noldo about the worth of vital resources, not when there are more sobs than screams in his voice, not with his shacking shoulders. People never cry here, and when they do in public, the display is considered shameful… but is it the same for Fëanaro, Mirfin wonders? What if crying is thought perfectly normal among his people?

“Fëanaro. Listen…”

“NO! No, I’m tired of listening to you! I’m tired of this retched place, of you, your horrible people, your twisted gods, your lies!”

“I am trying to help you.”

“Then _help me escape_!”

“I can’t.”

“Liar! You are a king there! You can but you won’t!”

“Listen, you fool,” Mirfin hisses menacingly, advancing at a predator’s pace toward his prisoner. “You must never speak of escaping again. Never. You are bound to this place body and soul. Even if I could get you out – and you are right, I _won’t_ get you out, we would never make it to you people. We would both die for nothing. You are only hurting yourself by pretending that anyone can save you when all three gods have their eyes set on you. Believe me or not, but I am trying to help you.”

“How? By flogging me? By keeping me tied to the wall, chained on the floor? By treating me like a child?”

“Yes. Yes, I am treating you like a child. Or a pup. Because I do not know how to deal with you. I am trying, but I can’t make head or tail of you more than half the time. If only you could open your mind, I could…”

“GET OUT OF MY MIND!”

How a simple, soft prodding can elicit such a violent reaction, Mirfin doesn’t know, but Fëanaro looks like someone hit him. He yanks a tapestry from the wall and throws it mercilessly to the floor, only to crumble in its folds like a broken doll, crying in despair at his powerlessness.

How is Mirfin supposed to react to this? He is a warchief, build for leading, brutality and discipline, none of whom remotely works with his prisoner. If Mairon wanted him broken, it would be easy – but he wants him mended, and asks someone who never did this before.

“Alright. I will not attempt mindspeech unless you ask me to.” He approaches the shaking body with care, hands held palm out in front of him in a universal gesture of peace. “Will you at least let me explain why I argued against your request?”

It takes a long time of painful sobs before Fëanaro calms enough to nod.

“I don’t think you are able to make this decision right now. You have endured things that are… very hard, from your point of view. I was unable to understand that and did not treat you in a way that could allow you to recover. You are tired, disoriented and you have not accepted that you cannot leave. You can grieve for your past life, but it is _gone_ , Fëanaro, and you need to go forward now.”

Mirfin sits on his heels near his brother. He dares not touch him yet, but at least his presence is tolerated.

“You know nothing about Ki-Barzil. My people is very different from yours, but you may be surprised by us. You may even be content one day. If you give up and die now, you will die without giving yourself a chance. I do not think that is what Fëanaro son of Miriel does. You rebelled against the false gods and came all the way to _here_. You are a fighter. If you truly have a death wish, then I want you to fight it long enough to figure out what you really want. In a year, you will be considered as an adult, and then neither I nor Mairon will be able to refuse you should you still want to die. One year, Fëanaro.”

“One year? How do you know it is going to last only one year?”

“I do not think Mairon will wait for much longer. You have things to learn, but if you are as brilliant as he says, you will pass all your class soon enough. Furthermore, ever since you received Fluithin’s blessing, Mairon planned to elevate you to the rank of Gashan.”

The title has been explained before. Fëanaro sniffs and starts to put himself together, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and re-arranging his hair.

“Why would I want to be a Gashan?”

“Because a Gashan answers only to Mairon and Fluithin. No one –not even me – will be able to punish you, give you order or makes demands. Since neither Mairon nor Fluithin are interested in quendi, you will be free to refuse any sexual proposition you aren’t interested in. You want to be free: become a Gashan, and you will have the closest thing to freedom you will ever achieve here.”

His brother stays silent, eyes darting to the mess at his feet; Mirfin lets him. Their conversation is starting to sound civilized again. He only needs more time, and a gentler touch.

Still, he is relieved when Fëanaro starts speaking.

“I cannot. I am not…” He freezes and obviously changes his mind. “I cannot work with Mairon. He… I am scared. Of him. I am scared like never before. Do you understand?”

“You were a prisoner of war – an elf with no rights. Mairon treats his subjects with fairness. His laws are clears, there are no reasons for him to hurt you if you obey them.”

“You do not know everything.” The noldo shakes his head. “He is…” He breathes, as if speaking words in silence. “I cannot go to Fluithin for protection.”

“Why?”

“I do not _like_ her," he says, but it sounds like he means to say she is repulsive in some way.

How could someone not like Fluithin is beyond Mirfin. She is their Mother! What is more natural that to love one’s mother?

“Why?”

“She stole my mother’s face and pretends to be her. It is spine-chilling beyond measure.”

“Ah.” Mirfin finally sits aside Fëanaro on the crumpled tapestry. It’s going to be a long talk. “I should have explained. It is my fault. Yes, Fluithin wears Miriel’s face, and she speaks as if she was our mother, but she doesn’t pretend to be her. She is the incarnation of Motherhood and has no fixed appearance. She takes faces according to the needs of the people around her and her own preferences. Since she met Miriel and I was always quite attached to her memory, it is one of her favorite faces, but she is merely acting as an incarnation of Miriel as a mother, and that does not make her Miriel at all: our mother was Miriel the Embroideress, Miriel the Wife, Miriel the Hunter, Miriel Who Talks With Birds… she was a lot more than the face Fluithin wears, and Fluithin does not pretend to be all of her. She thought you would be soothed by the sight of her and did not mean to scare you. Just… tell her next time. If this bother you, she will appear differently.”

“How do you know she met my mother?”

“I was here.” He remembers his mother screaming, Finwë doing nothing, and Fluithin’s shadowy arms around him. “To meet is perhaps not entirely right. She saw her. They never had the occasion to speak with one another.”

“I still do not believe you are my brother.”

“I know,” Mirfin allows with a sigh. He doesn’t think it’s about believing, but rather about wanting to believe. “But Miriel is still my mother and she wanted you. I owe her to try to like you.”

“You should not. She died because of me.”

“How?”

“I killed her. They say my spirit burnt too much and she could not bear the strain.”

“Who said that?”

Fëanaro withdraws, fingering a loose thread, but Mirfin is not going to let the matter to rest. She is his mother, he has the right to know. He repeats the question with more authority.

“The Valar.” He adds, when he understands that Mirfin will not back down: “When father wanted to know if she would return, or when, or if he could… they discussed the matter of my birth, and concluded, more or less, that it was either the Marring of Arda, me, her weakness, of a mix of those, that were responsible for her death.”

“I don’t know what the “marring” is. But you? How could you be responsible for her death? My mother had childbirth sickness. She knew and Finwë knew. Even I knew another pregnancy was bound to be dangerous. Her death had probably nothing to do with that supposed “fire” of yours.”

“Father would never have taken the risk if she was sick.”

“Finwë wanted children. He kept babbling about how he was going to have at least a dozen in Valinor.”

“He would never pressure her into…”

“I never said he did. Mother would not have let him pressure her into anything. She was stronger than this. You were born because she decided you were worth it. She probably wanted you more than herself the minute you started to exist. Those false gods lied. They made her look like a weakling and they sullied you, most probably because they knew she did not want to come to their golden prison in the first place.”

Fëanaro meets his affirmations in sullen silence, though he, at least, does not retract further into himself. His posture is stiff and he shifts uncomfortably.

“Does your back hurt?”

“No,” the noldo lies stubbornly. “I can bear it.”

“Let me have a look.”

“I said I can bear it.”

“I will have to change your bandages anyway.”

“A beta can do so.”

“I would rather do this myself, if you do not mind. We should spend time with each other.”

Fëanaro does not agree, but he does not disagree either. Mirfin orders another jug of water to be brought (and the tapestry to be repaired and hung back to the wall), and his brother does not struggle when he helps him out of his tunic to check his damaged back. The linen is dotted with small blood stains. Fëanaro shudders when Mirfin peels the bandages off him, but manages to keep up the pretense of stoicism.

“Why do you hate Finwë?” The elf asks, strain in his voice. He is trying (and failing) not to sound angry.

“I do not hate him,” Mirfin retorts. He starts to clean the wounds with alcohol and ignores Fëanaro's hissy breathes. “We never enjoyed the relationship I had with my mother. He was away to the West when I was born and for many years. When he came back, the Voyage took much of his time. I think I was a little jealous of him. Before his return, I had mother all for myself.”

“I do not understand why he did not mention you. Father and I have... had, a very close relationship. You are a big secret to carry.”

“Honestly, I hated him when I understood you did not know me.” Mirfin had thought himself over it, but he was wrong. Millenia after the facts, Finwë's abandonment still stung. Perhaps children cannot really get over their parents, whatever happens. “I thought about it. It makes sense. Finwë wanted to leave Middle Earth because he hated everything there. He hated the dark, the Shadows, and he hated his own people as they were. He wanted mother to wear thin clothes of linen instead of furs. He wanted the rich food of Valinor, not the eternal roasted forest game and wild roots. He was here, talking of silk, spices, jewels and pearls, buildings made of stone and tools of metal. Once he had seen Valinor, Middle Earth looked retarded to him. When he finally arrived... I think he just wanted to leave everything behind and start a new life.”

“He lied to me. I was fascinated by Middle Earth, but now I see I knew barely anything about the land.”

“Of course he lied. Parents always lie to their children to protect or indulge them. Or perhaps he started to romanticize Middle Earth after he left. Or the Valar found a way to make all the old one forget about us. I don't know. I don't think he expected you to ever leave. We hoped for our brothers’ return for years, but no one ever came back from Valinor. We believed the Valar were keeping you imprisoned.”

He finishes covering the wound with the grey, mending healing-paste, and starts to circle Fëanaro's chest with new, clean linen.

“They said we could leave, but they lied,” Fëanaro admits bitterly. “I marched my people north until we understood that the ice was not crossable, and then it was impossible to find ships. They were just waiting for us to turn around and beg for their forgiveness.”

“We thought the ice impassable as well. Lord Mairon ordered several expedition in the past and most were... inconclusive.”

“Thought?”

“Yes. Our half-brother crossed it. There was a battle in Lammoth.  I think one of his sons or one of his nephews died.”

“Which one?”

“I do not know. He was a prince, but we know nothing more.”

Fëanaro turns, eyes shining, his expression demanding.

“How much do you know about the Noldor? Do you know if my sons are alright?”

“I have heard nothing about one of them dying since your successor was captured.”

“His name is Nelyafinwë. Do you know what happened to him? Is he dead? If he was, would I know with Fairëliantë's curse?”

“Quiet.”

“Tell me...”

“Quiet. I have to ask one of my betas. I need to concentrate.”

Mindspeech is easy for Mirfin since Mairon trained all his Mulak hard, but he can't reach his intelligence beta with Fëanaro's starry glare digging into him and his deep voice charged with power trying to make him _tell_. The noldo shuts up, but he does not stop his heavy staring.

“I do not know what happened to him. Some uruks from the Vanarsh were executed for cowardice a few months ago. They were supposed to patrol the mountain near the place where your son was... detained. He is not here anymore.”

“He escaped then?”

“I do not know. I only know he is not there and some uruks were punished in the same area, around the time of his disappearance. If you want to be sure, you need to ask Mairon, but I would not recommend this course.”

A smile slowly creeps up his cheek, the first real one since Mirfin met him. When he is happy, Fëanaro almost looks beautiful despite his unsettling eyes.

“He is _gone_. I know he is.”

Mirfin does not comment. He is relieved to see his brother happy for once, but a noldorin prince (even an escaped one who will probably never recover) is a future enemy. He hopes his nephew is dead.

“I have work to do. You should rest. I will send someone to wake you so we can dine together.”

“Alright,” Fëanaro answers, made far more amiable by the “good” news. As he settles on his bed, Mirfin eyes the manacle, and his brother tenses when he follows his glance.

“Do I have to...”

“No. I will not escape. I promise.”

The Mulak studies his face, unsure if he can trust him. He does not want Fëanaro to do something stupid, spurred by the hope of his son's supposed escape; nonetheless, he refuses to destroy this precious moment of joy, as the manacle will surely do. The noldo is a fragile thing.

“Fine. I trust you.”

_Do not disappoint me._

Fëanaro nods, as if he heard the thought; Mirfin knows he did not, since his mind is constantly unnaturally closed. The noldo lays on his stomach, on his beddings on the ground, and smiles brightly, his eyes almost white under his raven black locks. For one moment Mirfin wonders if Fëanaro is not acting a little and launching some sort of charm strategy on him.

Coming back to work is not pleasing. The Mulak's lengthy discussion with Fëanaro made him late and obliges him to speed his afternoon to a mind numbing pace. He reviews the new batch of uruks with a stern face (hiding his feelings: they are not stronger than the former ones, their weapons still subpar compared to those of the Noldor, and so they will die), then moves to the forges since his Gashan is lying lifeless on their bed. He sends a beta to the nursery in order not to be late for Mairon's council, where the news are as grim as they were a week before: still no progresses about the sun, still working on it, more lands lost in Hithlum to the banner of Nolofinwë, another spring that failed and the necessity of building new pipes to bring water from the snowy mountains, a costy but much needed infrastrucure that is bound to require too much working force.

 _You look tired, Singer_ , Mairon whispers in his mind at the end of meeting. _Should I relieve you of some of your duties?_

 _No need, my lord_ , Mirfin answers dutifully. Loosing duties means loosing status, and status is hard to gain.

_You have endured a harsh punishment recently. Do not overwork yourself._

How nice that Mairon remembers a flogging he never saw, and Fëanaro conveniently does not!

_The punishment was deserved. I will heal quickly. Forgive me, my Lord. I will disappoint you again._

_You never disappoint. How does your brother fare?_

_Better. I have managed to successfully communicate with him. He is starting to warm up to me._

_Is he ready to join the teachers?_

_He is unpredictable, but I believe a full time occupation will have a positive outcome._

_I have given orders for an accelerated part-time course in language for him. I believe working in the nursery will be pleasing to him. He will start tomorrow._

_I will give the necessary orders to my Gashan's betas, my Lord_.

_I will expect regular reports of his progresses. You may leave._

Mirfin bows and obeys.

 

***

 

He sends a beta to check on Agarin and see, as always, if she is fit for diner. It is more an habit than a necessity now, since she has been catatonic for a year, but protocol is important: as long as the Gashan lives, her Mulak must show proper respect to her, even as he dreads the prospect of sleeping near her corpse-like figure.

Compared to her chalky face and too-thin skin, Fëanaro is brimming with life. He is still floating on the happiness of Nelyafinwë's disappearance, and to see him smile is oddly refreshing.

Mirfin arranged their diner to be a private affair. Most of the time, he eats with a least a dozen of his beta. He can not afford such display of Fëanaro yet for fear of his constants missteps.

“Do not sit there,” he stops his brother before he sits near him, on his Gashan's empty cushion. “I am supposed to keep at all time room for my equal. You can sit here,” he gestures toward a lower cushion and is pleased when Fëanaro obediently settles there. “Diner for two is very unusual. Normal occurrences are common meals, with the banqueters sitting according to their status. In such an event you would sit very far from me. The most respectful way of sitting is on your knees, sitting on your heels. In less formal meetings such as this one you can stay cross-legged. We eat most of our food with our fingers, so you will wash your hands before each meal. Water will be passed down, first to the Mulak and Gashan, then down the table, so that the level of purity decreases according to rank. You will not dry your fingers. For each course, always wait for the people higher than you to begin eating before you touch anything.”

The Mulak eyes his charge, waiting for any question or protest, but Fëanaro is nothing but attentive. Until…

“Before each meal, there will be a blessing, pronounced by the highest religious authority, usually the Gashan. You must keep your head down, eyes opened, hands on your knees.”

“A blessing in whose name?” Fëanaro asks, his fists closed, knuckles whitening.

With a slight gesture, Mirfin dismisses the two servants from the room. He just has a feeling that things aren’t going to go smoothly.

“The God of the Gods, of course. Lord Mairon, Lady Fluithin and Lady Fairëliantë are merely trusted counsellors of the King of Arda. It is He we thank for bread and water.”

“I am not praying to Melkor.”

“You will not have to. Your religious authority as a Gashan will be exceptionally passed to me. Unless we eat separately…”

“I will not _pretend_ to pray either. I will not sit there listening to _blessings_ pronounced in honor of my father’s murderer.”

“I will _pretend_ that I did not hear you. Blasphemy is punished by quartering. _Slow_ quartering.”

“Finwë is also _your_ father.”

“If he was in my place, what do you think he would say? Do you think he would ask you to condemn yourself to a terrible fate, knowing you will not die during the process, or that he would not care that you bow your head and shut your mouth once in a day?”

“He would not bend! He would stand proudly and fight, as he did in life!”

“And he would die in a most horrible fashion for absolutely nothing!” Mirfin must have hit a nerve, because his brother’s face blanches. “Some fights cannot be won. This is one of them, surely Finwë would understand.”

“I am not hungry.”

“Did I allow you to leave?” Mirfin asks as Fëanaro begins to rise. “Sit.”

“No.”

Mirfin is on his feet before him. He pushes him back down with a hand, clutching his shoulder like a claw.

“When I give you an order, I expect to be obeyed.”

“Or you will whip me? Are you my brother or my jailer?”

“Both. I can be your brother and ally. The choice is yours.”

“The choice! Between what? Submitting in shame or suffering without end?”

“There is no shame in yielding when faced with impossible odds.”

“Nothing is impossible. My whole life, I went farther than anyone would have thought because I _refused_ to yield!” His bony shoulder starts to shake under Mirfin’s hold. “I would have gone to the end of the earth, fought _anything_ for him.” His face shows pain, though Mirfin can not guess if he is hurting his back or if the agony bleeds from Fëanaro's spirit. “I was so angry. I could have defied Melkor alone, fueled by rage. Until Fluithin came and drained all feelings from me. Now I am only tired and hurt. Fire turned to ashes.”

Mirfin allows his finger to relax, turning the gripe into a firm caress. He kneels in front of the defeated figure and slowly brings his other hand up to cup his cheek.

“I wish you no harm.”

“I know.” A sigh. “But you still hurt me.”

“You make me hurt you.”

“I am not making you do anything, Mirfin. This place is making you.”

“We do not choose where we live.”

“We could.”

“Perhaps. But not now. This is my home.”

“It is a terrible home.”

“It is your home now. Give it a chance.”

He brings his brother into a hug with minimal resistance, soon overcome as Fëanaro accepts to melt against him and settles his brow in the crook of his neck. Now that the conflict is gone, Mirfin feels incredibly tired. Tired of his dying mate, crippled people, decaying home. Tired of his difficult brother; tired of remembering Finwë.

“Why do you always try to touch me?”

“I do not know how to reach you with words.”

“I hate being touched by people outside my family.”

“I am your brother.”

“I hated my brothers.”

“They are still your family.”

“I know. It seems very petty now.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“… no. When you touch me, I feel like... someone is actually there. This is the only moment when I am not feeling _deaf_.” Fëanaro's body grows heavier. “You know I will always curse him. I will say nothing, but I will curse him with all my soul.”

 _Alright_ , Mirfin murmurs into his hair. It is better than nothing, a good start, better than he could hope for.

Now, he just has to hope it will last for the coming days, when Fëanaro will be out on his own.

 

 


	8. Mommy [Fëanaro]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanaro, too many children and an overly attached mother.

Fëanaro goes back to school with a sullen mood; once there things grow far, far worse.

In Tirion, most children are tutored privately or by their own parents, alone or most likely in small groups, no more than five children at a time. Fëanaro tutored all of his children himself, but for the twins who learnt they letters with Nelyafinwë. In retrospect he admits he wasn't that good of a teacher. With the exception of his son Curufinwë, whose mind works much like his one, he was always too quick for his children, somewhat unable to adapt his vast knowledge to their simpler needs. Only Curufinwë has his insatiable thirst, uncanny comprehension of things. His brothers owe most of their talents to their mother's more comprehensive tutoring.

Now, Fëanaro finds himself in a room with fifty children, sitting cross legged on the ground with a small pile of slates, and thinks he never, ever  stupider in his whole life. He's twice as big as any of them. He's probably older than all of them put together, and he would still need to multiply this number to get it right.

The worst thing is probably that the children share his mind. His presence raises whispers and chuckles. He doesn't deign to react to them, but his pride is still chaffing. 

There is a single teacher with four assistants. The master stands on a stone platform in front of a wall entirely made of slate; quite clever, considering that teachers in Tirion have to work solely with paper and wax tablets. There is no direct interaction between him and the children: he directs the class, sketching strings of symbols to be recopied over and over until the letters are drawn right, while the assistants check them and correct the mistakes. The class as a whole looks like a well-oiled machinery, full of disciplined little things, and it’s amazing that so many of them can learn with half the number of adults required in Tirion, though Fëanaro cannot guess how they adapt to the uniqueness of each student.

He's been left to himself for an hour, trying to keep up with what's in front of him, but he's barely able to. He doesn't understand the logic behind the symbols, their construction and _whatever_ , he just ends up copying what he sees like a dumb beast. He's never been able to work on anything he can't understand, and it's plaguing him again: he wants to know how the symbols works, why they are that way, how they fit with each other, who made them and when. He doesn't even know half the words he's supposed to copy.

He's not used to not knowing anymore.

When an assistant finally shows up, Fëanaro is growing more and more frustrated. His mind, which has left him alone for most of his stay in Angamando, is finally starting to plague him again with endless interrogations.

“Those letters are sloppy. Erase them and show me how you make them.”

Fuming, Fëanaro does so, satisfied, at least, that the slate allows him not to waste anything.

“Stop. Show me how you use your piece of chalk – no, that's not it. That's how you hold it,” he takes the stone from his hand and pinch it between his fingers. “Try now. Always start forming the letters from top-left toward the bottom, then the right. Relax your hand at the end of each stroke. Have you ever written on clay?”

“No. We use paper.”

“What kind of medium do you usually write with?”

“Mostly feathers. We also use stylus on wax instead of slates and chalk.”

“I've never used wax, but I think it's somewhat comparable to clay. When you write on clay, the pressure of the hand is important lest you end up with uneven lines and very disgraceful finishes for the lines. We also use brushes on paper for long and complicated documents...”

“... and the movement of the hand shows dramatically when using brushes.”

“Exactly. Movement from top-left to bottom-right is considered graceful and harmonious. So are straight lines, but you have a firm hand and that shouldn't be a problem. Keep practicing them. I'll come back to you.”

He waits another hour or so until the assistant comes back with a whole alphabet written on clay. It takes him yet another hour to wrestle a compliment from the assistant. When the class ends at midday, Fëanaro is almost disappointed that it's not going on for the afternoon, now that he's getting truly started.

Mirfin arranged for him to work at the nursery. The choice left Fëanaro puzzled: he was expecting to be coerced into crafting weapons or tools, not to feed and clean wailing babies.

“You insisted that you have seven children and raised them yourself, did you not?” the Mulak pronounces rhetorically. “That would make you more than qualified, and I'm more inclined to trust you with children than with molten metal.”

He's even more puzzled when his brother is proven right.

He's working under a nasty, severe lady with a bland face and a heavily scarified face. She is always hovering behind his back; when she isn't, she sends someone else to do so. Fëanaro is annoyed to be mistrusted so: he would never harm an innocent child and yes, he knows how to hold a baby, thank you, even if he's not used to take care of fifty babies and certainly not of having ten of them per room. He's starting to think that everything in this place is made for groups: children are born in groups, nursed together, taught together, and adults don't seem very individualistic either. He asks where the babies' parents are and is answered with astonished faces: apparently, parents aren't involved at all past the birth.

The noldo doesn't understand how it can be so. He felt very strongly the death of his mother. Every absence of his father was painful when he was little. He was loathe to let his own sons out of his sight for too long, always feeling like he was abandoning them... and now, Fëanaro is in charge of ten parentless children, a sight he cannot bear without grief. It's not boredom or obedience that spur him to the side of each and every one of them as soon as they begin to cry.

He misses his children.

He realizes he hasn't been thinking much about them lately. His trials have made him very self-centered, more than Fëanaro ever was, as if world has shrank to the limits of his own skin, or to the walls of his chamber in Mirfin's mansion. He doesn't know if he wants to allow the babes to get to him. It feels like a crack in the meager walls he still has to protect himself.

He dines with Mirfin again. His mind is full of letters ( _Why? How?_ ) during the blessing. He's so engrossed in them ( _Why are sentences organized that way? How are you supposed to translate this peculiar quenya construction?_ ) that Mirfin has to shake him a bit to remind him to eat. The gesture sends a surge of pain through his back.

“Did I hurt you?” the Mulak asks. He doesn't sound sorry, but then, Fëanaro has never heard him apologizing for anything. Perhaps it's a concept that doesn't exist in Angamando.

“You surprised me.” He's not going to complain since Mirfin is only going to be annoyed by his weakness. “Does your back hurt?”

He's startled to think that he forgot completely about Mirfin's wounds. Somehow, the information didn't quite process, perhaps because the white-haired elf never looks like he's suffering. Still, Fëanaro feels shocked at this misstep. When did he loose his capacity to care and empathize? When did his world reduce itself to himself? Was it before or after his capture?

No, he thinks, he used to think of others than himself, but he had few spare thoughts for his children. Before Angamando, his thought were constantly for Finwë, his smile, his ravaged face, his failings, his lullabies, his love, his absences... Fëanaro had always feared the day when his father would finally grow tired of him and abandon him altogether. He hadn't been prepared for his father to be wrenched from him, not of his own volition but by death.

Death brought by him. Whatever Mirfin said, Fëanaro had killed both his parents, and now his children would die because of him.

“I can bear it,” Mirfin answers. They are talking in quenya this evening. His voice sounds weirdly like Macalaurë's despite his heavy accent. “It's healing nicely. Thank you for asking.”

“I should have asked sooner. It was insensitive of me. I'm sorry.”

“Do not be sorry. If you wronged someone, act to make things right. Feeling sorry is not going to change anything. Saying you are sorry is more than thinking, but it's still too easy. Actions are always more worthy of attention.”

“Can I help you with your back this evening?”

“I would like that.”

During the treatment, Mirfin asks him about his day. For once they share something of the present time instead of century-years-old stories. They speak mostly of the letters. Mirfin is something of a recognized linguistic genius, though he doesn't have much time to indulge to this hobby, and he answers with passion to his brother's prodding enquiries. Fëanaro doesn't give voice to his discomfort with the children, especially since Mirfin is quite vocal about how he is pleasantly surprised by his behavior.

“I have been told that you have a very sensitive touch with the small ones. It is true you are soft by our standards, and that softness is often considered weakness among my people, but it is not always so. It is a gift for the followers of Fluithin, and a rare one here. I am proud of you.”

Fëanaro refrains from arguing that he's not soft nor sensitive, but Mirfin probably doesn't want to hear that his own people are heartless brutes. Perhaps the nursery isn't such a bad choice after all, if it's the only place where he can behave as his civilized self.

He slowly finds his place in the following days. The teacher's assistant grows fond of him and he's quickly drowning in work, in his own corner of the room, eating documents and exercises at an astonishing speed. In less than a month he is fluent both in speaking and writing and moves toward advanced, poetic and specialized literature. By the second month the assistant introduces him to the Cirth, the alphabet invented but not used by the Sindar, to allow him to use the comparative texts written in both Sindarin and the Holy Tongue (these texts are meant to teach Sindarin, but with him it works the other way around). By the third he moves to math and loves how it's considered a part of linguistic rather than a separate science.

Fëanaro knows he is burying himself in intellectual pursuits, as he always does when he doesn't want to face grief. He behaved thus when Miriel died, when Tirion grew tense and his people all but rejected him, or when his marriage crumbled. He fills his head with questions and new information and discoveries and formulas, and he comes back to the surface only to bring Mirfin back down with him, who is old enough to have known the first time of the Holy Tongue and speaks the best Valarin Fëanaro ever heard in the mouth of an elf.

The only thing anchoring him to reality are the children. Here, too, he wins grudging respect. He is tireless, utterly devoted, beloved by the little creatures. The nursery is his haven of innocence in the most terrible place in Arda.  He knows he is trying hard to be oblivious to everything else: to the fact he's raising soldiers who will try to kill his sons, to the fact that prisoners are being tortured when he's hugging the delicate bodies.

Every time he thinks of them, of his people and how they suffer, his mind starts to fill with formulas. The letters buzz until they obliterate all thoughts.

He is a coward. He doesn't care.

It feels good.

 

***

 

Fëanaro notes how Mirfin goes out of his ways to accommodate him.

The Mulak starts to wash the cosmetics off his face before they dine instead of later. He looks surprisingly normal without the blackened lips, kohl and whitened skin. Fëanaro spots dark roots in his hair once. Mirfin admits he bleaches them white. His mind learns to ignore the scarification.

He begins to see likeness between Mirfin and Nolofinwë in the structure of the face. His voice sounds like Macalaurë's, his eyes (if he imagines them alight) look like Tyelkormo's. He learns he speaks to animal too, a talent he inherited from Miriel. Little by little, Fëanaro manages to make him fit in the puzzle of the house of Finwë.

They almost always eat together, despite Mirfin's claim that he usually dines in public. The food changes gradually to conform to the noldo's tastes. Fëanaro replaces the beta who nursed the Mulak's wounds, and when they require healing no more, Mirfin still visits for long hours. He starts to sleep in Fëanaro’s room despite the small bedding. Fëanaro doesn't protest. He never enjoyed sleeping alone and likes to find him there, snoring softly, every time he wakes from a nightmare.

By the fourth month, Mirfin takes him to the Temple of the Mother. Fëanaro still feels uncomfortable around Fluithin, but she doesn't look like Miriel this time and it helps tremendously. She is hazel haired with doe eyes, freckles and an ample bosom.

“My baby boy!” she shouts with delight. Despite her elf-looking body, she glides more than she walks. She's also two heads taller than Fëanaro, making him effectively child-sized compared to her; his face ends up between her breasts when she hugs him. “How are you? Are you eating well?”

“I am. Thank you.”

He is supposed to call her “mother”, but the word stay stuck in his throat. Fëanaro only has one mother and she is dead. He endures, embarrassed, as she pets his cheeks and arms to check if he has gained weight.

“Is Mirfin taking good care of you?”

“Of course I am,” the Mulak retorts, but Fluithin tu-tus him with a frown.

“I'm asking him, son.”

“He is.”

“Good. I always thought Mirfin would make a wonderful big brother. Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you.”

 _I need to escape_ , he thinks, but oddly the thought doesn't come naturally. It's like he has to consciously consider escaping, instead of being obsessed by the idea.

She kisses Mirfin on the brow and gives him a short hug before she sends him away. Fëanaro shots him a mocking smirk, amused at the sight of the dignified Mulak cuddling like a ten years-old. Mirfin frowns and leave with a studied dignity.

Fëanaro notices her hair are turning silver at the tip.

“Do you mind? It comes naturally for me, but I can restrain myself if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“I don't want to be rude.”

“Rude? It's not being rude if you ask nicely.”

“I... I'd rather you keep your current appearance, if you don't mind.”

“Not at all. I am a very forgetful person, you may have to remind me to stick to it from time to time, alright?”

“Thank you. Must I call you mother or can I…?”

“You can call me Fluithin if it pleases you.”

She smiles sweetly and caresses his cheek with fresh fingers. She never feels quite solid, not like the usual maiar from Valinor. Fëanaro can’t help but think that something must be wrong with her. How can a being so nice live in Angamando? He thinks of Mairon’s fair appearance and pretenses and feels like throwing up.

He follows her deep into the temple. Her house serves as a healing facility. Mirfin insists that he should have his medical skills evaluated by the Lady herself. The prospect troubles him. Will he be required to aid soldiers, enemies of his people? If she allows him to refuse such a task, would the refusal weight heavier on his conscience than acceptance?

He is faced with his first patient, a slave with a severe burn on his arm. At least the noldo doesn’t have to make a choice… should he feel guilty that he’s relieved? He is, in any case, confident that he knows how to treat this kind of wounds. Being a smith exposed him to plenty of those in his career. Fluithin nods approvingly to his suggestions; strengthened by his first success, Fëanaro, while unable to provide answer to every enquiry, feels that he manages well.

At the end of the day, he follows Fluithin to her studies. She offers little cakes and mushroom-tea in a way very reminiscent of Indis, only Fëanaro somehow feels like she is genuine. He is more and more puzzled by her everlasting gentle behavior, her body full of curves, yet so light she could be blown away by the lightest wind.

Her room is the fluffiest place he has ever been in. He has to tip-toe between pillows of all colors, some so worn out they are almost falling apart, and can’t even see the walls, drowned as they are under sever layers of tapestries. She lights several small colored paper-lanterns. She pulls out a whole set of plates, all broken and repaired with molten gold.

Mairon was right, she does break everything.

“I am very happy to see you healing, my love. Seeing you suffer… I could not bear it.” She hands him a dish filled with so much cakes he could feed half a family with them. “Do you need anything?”

_I need to go home._

“I have nightmares,” he admits reluctantly, yet the words flow freely from his mouth; something is at play here, something that lay down his defenses. “And I would rather be with my own family, actually.”

“I know. Being separated from the one you love is terrible. But you have your elder brother to look after you, do you not? I know he loves you. Did you tell him about the nightmares?”

“Ah, hem, no. I don’t think he would understand. He trusts Mairon blindly and cannot…”

Fëanaro catches himself before he says anything damning. He doesn’t know how Sauron will react and doesn’t care to find out.

“I know he hurt you. It won’t happen again. I was very clear. Mairon is not allowed to hurt my babies.”

“With due respect, my Lady, he’s… not exactly…” Why does he trust her? Why does he want to betray himself, and tell her everything he feels about her ally’s cruelty? “It’s happening all the time. People are tortured, punished horribly for meager affronts! No one even knows how to behave with at least a modicum of morality! Even if Mairon was the fair leader he claims he is, he admitted himself that he’s not in control of himself. He told me himself that no one, no one is safe from him!”

“You are safe.”

“My Lady…”

She’s over him in a split second, her white arms around his shoulders, hair turned silver and a frightful light on her face. She does look like Miriel now; only her eyes are duller, the light of the trees absent. Her hair float around her as in water. Slowly, the Light creeps into her iris.

Her height gives the illusion that he’s a child again, so very small against her strong, overpowering adult body.

“You are _my_ baby. I made myself clear. I don’t care if he’s Mairon or Sauron or whatever he wants to be called, if he dares to _hurt_ my baby son, I will make him _pay_. Melkor may need him, but he _loves_ me.”

She shakes her head. She seems to remember her promise now: color bleeds back into the floating strands.

“Love is a very powerful thing, Fëanaro. Once, a long time ago, I was loved by the most beautiful and terrible of us all. Sometimes Melkor remembers. He likes to indulge me, and my whims are few and easily satisfied. He allows me to cherish and protect my children.”

He wishes he could snake away from her arm. Her sadness tingle against his skin, meddled with an animal possessiveness. The father in Fëanaro recognizes it too well. He feels the same toward his sons. He dreamt his father felt it too, toward him. The faint hope that she may, perhaps, be something else, something beautiful lost in Angamando flickers and die under the crushing power of her maternal cravings.

He knows he will never escape. Even without the curse of Fairëliantë, even if Sauron and Moringotto himself allowed him to get away.

 _She_ will never, never let him go.


	9. To move forward [Fëanaro]

The year rushes like a quick river.

Fëanaro is wholly taken with his studies. He moves from class to class until he studies with the young adults; here, he struggles, not to keep up, but because he wants to best each and every one of them by a league despite him being a newcomer. His efforts are mostly dedicated to translating his valinorean knowledge into Mairon's structures. It's a gymnastic of the mind, one that enthralls him so thoroughly he doesn't have the time to fear or grieve anymore. He almost resents the moments when he has to work in the nursery or in the hospital, because he must pushes his current interests to the back of his mind.

He spends time with Fluithin, an hour per week. Those are the only moments when his brain is free from equations and symbols. Everything washes out. Fëanaro talks to her, about everything really, even things he never shared before. At first he doesn't know why. He hardly knows her and has no reasons to confide in her; nonetheless, when they are together, he feels at peace, defenseless but never threatened. The noldo suspects some sort of glamour is at work, something that makes him feel like he can't displease her or lose her unconditional love.

His relationship with Fluithin, if weird, at least brings Fëanaro to the distressing realization that he has been afraid all his life. She looks at him with a purity that was never there in Finwë's eyes. His father's gaze was always clouded with sadness, guilt and disbelief, as if he couldn't be with his son, not fully, his mind being at all time dedicated to his realm, his heart feeling the loss and trying to make up for it. When he is with Fluithin, free of grief and guilt, Fëanaro wonders if Finwë ever understood him, ever tried to understand, or if the son was always a mystery for the father.

Of course, he doesn't bear those thoughts lightly. Away from the goddess's side, the emotions hit him with renewed force. Is he a traitor for doubting his father, his king? Isn't he ungrateful? What did he do to deserve Finwë's love in the first place?

It is too painful to consider, for the answer is always the same: _nothing_.

He buries the guilt, the pain, the inadequacies he carries under the numbers and letters. At least Fëanaro is good at it. He is a bad king, a useless father and a worse, traitorous son, but when he solves problems he can almost convince himself it doesn't matter, because he's the best at something and that gives him a right to exist.

His final examination approaches. Fëanaro is more than a thousand years old by Mairon's count, an undisputed master in many crafts and lore, the creator of linguistic as a field of lore in Valinor and of many unrivaled wonders, but he is sleepless from anxiety. By the end of the trial he will stop being considered a child. His schedule will change, so will his responsibilities, and he will _belong_ there. Mirfin will cut his face with the markings of adulthood and of his status as a beta. The scars will never fade. He will be expected to cover his skin with white powder and his eyes with black kohl.

He feels like he's killing the elf he was in Valinor, little by little. Each achievement a nail on his coffin.

He must succeed, though. He must rise here if he hopes to do real damages. Or so he tells himself.

 

***

 

Fëanaro passes his examination in front of a jury of eight: seven elves and Mairon himself. They haven't seen each other since their lengthy discussion a few months before. The noldo pronounces the usual greetings and feels his palms go wet. Mairon dictates an equation to be written on the slate wall and waits.

It's a simple one. Fëanaro knows this. He could have solved it when he was eight.

Yet he can't.

If his mind is a machine, then a gear must be stuck somewhere. He needs a very simple formula to solve this but can't remember it. He tries to find it back but can't multiply. He tries to take the longer road and use additions but doesn't know what three plus four amounts to. His hand stays up, his piece of chalk touching the board lightly, unmoving, a testament to his empty mind while he imagines Mairon's glare boring into his back.

“Your time is up,” one of the examiners says, and it's true: the hourglass's upper vial is empty. “Call the next candidate on your way out.”

_Did I just fail a basic test?_

He can't believe it. He can't. He can do better than this. He can show them. He knows how to do it. It's _simple_. Why can't he solve this?

Fëanaro turns to leave, but he catches the glimpse of a smirk on the examiners lips, her satisfaction at seeing the valinorean thrall failing so spectacularly. She thinks him dumb, _inferior_ , and her glee makes something click. The cold recedes and a warm anger creeps to his cheek.

He goes back to the board and writes a single number. Time is up, and it's too late, and this random inscription isn't going to make anything better. It's more a final act of defiance than a useful gesture; by the look on her face, it's useless. _Time's up_.

“Next question,” Mairon dictates, voice clear and calm. The gold powder in the hourglass fills up the vial, an invisible force carrying the particles up. A new equation follow. Fëanaro's hands seems to solve it on its own, right after he finishes copying the maia's words.

The examination lasts forever, yet ends quickly, for his mind is always running, occupied, and Fëanaro does his best to be as fast as he can. They don't tell how he fared but he's not worried.

He passes more exams in the following days: linguistics, geometry, medical knowledge and nursing, religious education (this one is more of an exam about hiding his disgust and letting literal warg shit out of his mouth than actual lore) and finally crafting. Fëanaro hasn't actually made anything since the necklace debacle years before, if he doesn't count the mending of his own socks. The craft of choice is normally chosen by the teachers.

He's sorted into metal working.

He's supposed to have a full week to work on the commission. Craft always come last, which is fortunate since Fëanaro, now that the time has come to take back his tools, spends half the night before shaking from a panic attack. He tries to sleep, but can't, until his breath becomes so ragged Mirfin wakes with a worried look. He's cold, nauseous, his bowels clenching.

He notices the exhaustion on Mirfin's face as his brother rises and makes him tea.

“I'm sorry.”

The Mulak shrugs. He sees enough with barely any light, but Fëanaro can't. He actually likes it: he discerns the general shape of the elf's face, but not the scars or weird absence of eyebrows, and the bleached hair seem more natural. He can pretend Mirfin belongs to his people.

“I won't mind. If you decide to move back to where you can actually rest, I mean.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” Fëanaro answers without any hesitation. He's used to sharing his bed with his brother now – he's used to thinking of him as family. “But you may want to.”

“I don't need your approbation or authorization to do anything. If I wanted to leave, I wouldn't be there.”

He comes back with two cups and sits carefully on their blankets. Fëanaro struggles up against the cushions. His breath sounds normal now, if a bit laboring, but every organ between his neck and navel feels heavy and tense. He accepts the cup with sincere gratitude.

“I have never explained why I sleep here most of the time.”

“I always assumed you enjoyed my company,” Fëanaro jokes. Both elves ignore the strain in his voice.

“I do. It's not the only reason. The truth is that I have wanted to move out of my chambers for quite some times but was unable to do so without an alibi. With you, I just have to let people assume and my reputation is safe.”

“Assume what?”

“That I am bedding you.”

The tea goes out of his mouth with an explosive gasp. Some even goes up his nose, and the noldo has to cough out whatever got stranded in his throat.

“I haven't told anyone it's true,” Mirfin defends himself, “I just didn't say I wasn't.”

“Why for the sake of Eru didn't you? It's disgusting!”

“Why?”

“We're both males!”

“Well, sex doesn't have to actually produce children.”

“You're my _brother_!”

“Incest is only problematic if reproduction is intended. That's obviously not the case here.”

“You should at least have asked me if I was... what if I don't want people to think....”

“Fëanaro. Calm down. No one cares if we actually have sex or not, and it’s not likely to happen. I’m not interested in males.”

“But...”

“Among my people, having sex with people of your own sex or family isn't problematic, it's only a matter of what the dominant one wants if there is an imbalance of power, and what both want if the partners are equals. You have been living in quarters meant for my concubines... sexual partners, for months now, so yes, those who bother to care probably think we have sex. I didn't tell you earlier because there's no shame attached to those rumors. If it was damaging to your reputation, don't you think I would have done things differently?”

“But we _aren't_ lovers. I don't get what you gain in by letting them believe we are.”

“They think I live with you now because I get sexual gratification out of it. The other possibility is that I don't live in my own chambers anymore because I don't want to be here, which means I either want to insult my Gashan or am afraid of her. I'd rather look like I have a... understandable weakness for you despite you being less than attractive than look like I am failing as a Mulak.”

 _Less than attractive?_ That is, certainly, the first time Fëanaro is called ugly to his face. He's not surprised, though, since his glowing eyes seem repulsive to the people of Ki-Barzil.

“I never met your Gashan. Surely she is not scary enough for you to fear her.”

“It is common knowledge Agarin is sick, but most people don't know...” Mirfin hesitates. “She's dead. She's been dead for months.”

“Dead? There's a corpse in your chambers?”

“No. She should have died months ago, but Mairon has arranged for her body to be kept alive. She's comatose. But yes, it feels like there's a corpse, but it's not decaying so...”

“There's. A _corpse_. In your bed.” Words can't convey how appalled Fëanaro is. You bet Mirfin prefers to share his brother's sheets, even if the mattress is too small for two and everyone believes...  “What in Mandos is Mairon even _thinking_?”

“As long as Agarin breathes, no Gashan can be named. She will die once the next one is ready.”

“So he's basically keeping her alive to fuck up his own laws.”

“I wouldn't put it that way but yes.”

“The next candidate must be truly exceptional.”

“I doubted he was worthy of Mairon's attention, but I'm starting to see he is.”

“Lucky one.”

“I'm talking about you. It's _you_ we're waiting for.”

Fëanaro waits for Mirfin to laugh it off, but his brother's face is deadly serious. Panic creeps back up and...

No.

“You're wrong. I can't be. You said it yourself. I was an awful king. I can't.”

“Are you truly surprised? I wasn't allowed to tell you, but I hinted with no subtlety that you could hope for the position.”

“Not now! In a decade, a century, but not _now_!”

“Gashans and Mulaks remain in place for _centuries_. I don't agree with the means, but I agree with the end. If anyone else becomes a Gashan you will fall under his or her authority instead of mine. You will have to defy him or her to get the place, and such an act can be attempted once every ten years only, with a hundred years between each attempts. I had to play along and you _have to_ be named. Do you think I didn't take your suicide attempt seriously? I'm starting to understand you, brother. You won't survive here unless you can rule.”

“I'm not ready, there's too much...”

“It doesn't matter. I've been both the Mulak and the Gashan for the Tatyarsh ever since Mairon gave you to me. I'm used to it. I will help you.”

“The Gashan is meant to be the highest religious authority...”

“You won't. I will be the exception, but I will be the Great Priest for our people.”

“You have it all tied up, haven't you?”

“Yes.”

“Everything but me. I'm not suited for this task. I can tolerate living here as long as all I have to do is read, take care of children and heal wounded people, but I won't flog, torture or help Melkor in any other way. You know this.”

Mirfin doesn't answer. Fëanaro never heard him lie since Mirfin prefers to keep silent rather than arrange the truth to look nice. He's both brutally honest and manipulative.

“What if I fail tomorrow? Can I remain among the children?”

“Yes,” Mirfin reluctantly admits. “But you will gain one year only. Students who fail twice are either sorted among the uruks or not sorted at all.”

“Would that be a solution?”

“Not sorted at all means that I get to slit your throat so your soul can be reborn as something lesser, so no, that wouldn't be. Anyway, you won't fail.”

Fëanaro is still stuck at “slit your throat”, and how little it shocks Mirfin. The noldo wouldn't kill any member of his family. Yes, he drew a sword on Nolofinwë, but he only meant to threaten him (that, and he had liked the punchline “sharper than thy tongue”; he _had_ been quite the drama queen, before killing became real). He has never killed anyone in cold blood and hopes he never will be able to. There's something monstrous in the casual way Mirfin talks about delivering death.

Would he slit Mirfin's throat? Fëanaro tries to picture a red smile on his brother's throat. The vision makes him sick, dragging him back and under; he's suffocating, the taste of bile on his tongue. He has a moment of absence before he wakes, safely tucked into his elder's arms.

“It's alright. I'm here. You're safe.”

_No, I'm not. Father would have protected me against anything. Even Nolofinwë would have fought before I was stupid enough to leave him behing. You would slit my throat and you would only feel a bit sad for a few days!_

“Answer me. Please.”

It's not a “if you'd like” please, but more like a “you can't say no but I'm trying to soften it with honey” please. Fëanaro closes his eyes. Why can't Mirfin just stop talking and keep stroking his hair in silence?

“I'm scared.”

“I know.”

“No, you don't.” He doesn't know how to explain. Fëanaro thinks Mirfin does know fear, but only as data to be processed before he takes an educated decision. He's so used to pain and responsibilities and being the rational Mulak that he is that he's not likely to ever be ruled by his emotions.

He shuts up for once. Did he hear his cadet's thoughts? No, he can't; Fëanaro can't remember the last time his mind was open. He doesn't even know if he will be able to open it again one day.

“The last time I worked with metal, it didn't end well.”

The hand of his hair doesn't falter, regular as a clock. Anchoring.

“Melkor commissioned a necklace from me. When I showed it to him. He tried to...”

The Black Tongue doesn't know the word “rape”, and the quenya's one is old, one of those rare words only linguists and historians claim to know. According to the Laws and Customs, elves can't rape each other: what use is there in naming a concept that can't exist? He remembers learning it when he read it in a long list of abuses Melkor had inflicted on the elves before they came to Valinor.

“He tried to have sex with me. Against my will. Mairon convinced him to stop because obviously it would have been very bad for my health I think? Obviously not because he cared about things like consent. Perhaps he was jealous of that as well. Anyway it didn't end well and Mairon tortured me after that for absolutely _no reasons_ because I _swear_ I hadn't done _anything_ remotely deserving of that, I mean I know now that I didn't behave with sufficient humility and submissions but I didn't _know_ what would happen, I was so _stupid_ , I...”

He felt tears on his cheeks, and no air in his throat.

“I gloated that I was the better craftsman. I said to his face he wasn't better than I was when I was two hundreds. I mocked him and his craft – I don't want to risk it again.”

“You won't. You know better now, it won't happen. Your last encounter with him was very courteous.”

“But what if I do something better than he does? Or something he doesn't know how to do? I can't do something bad on purpose because he will know, but if it's too good he'll be jealous again and...”

“Curufinwë.”

It's the first Mirfin uses his father's name; it makes Fëanaro freeze. No one called him Finwë ever since the king died.

“Yes. It's your name. Skilled-Finwë. Honestly, it sounds stupid, and skilled-hair-chief has a ridiculous ring to it, but that “skilled” part is the reason why Mairon wants you. I doubt he wants you to fail.”

“Is insulting my name supposed to make me feel better?”

“Father named me Mirfin. I don't think it's any better.”

“Shiny-hair.”

“My hair were pitch black like yours and drank light like ink. He should have called me Morfin or something like that.”

“You're trying to divert my attention.”

“Of course. You are worrying for nothing, but anxiety can't always be fought with rational words, so I'm trying to make you laugh.”

“It's not working.”

“Try harder.”

“We've been talking about rape,” he says the word in quenya, “and torture and corpses in your bed. Your sense of humor is awful.”

He tries to play along, he really tries, but it works for one minute and fails for the next. He also doesn't like how Mirfin always find a way not to talk about the horrors of this place, but there's no use insisting: Fëanaro knows, by now, that he's not the only one in denial.

“Do you have a mother's name?”

“Of course. I was sixteen when Finwë came back, people did need to call me before that.”

“You never told me what it is.”

“No. I always use Mirfin here. My mother name is... personal.”

“You never use it?”

“No. Mother asked me not to some time after father's return.”

“Why?”

“I wasn't very friendly to father. I think she was trying to give the impression that I cared about him. I did care, I was just not very good at showing I did. He had been away for so long everyone thought he was dead, and then he came back changed and never really had time, nor for mother, nor for me. We didn't...”

“... speak the same language?”

“Exactly. Did you...”

“All the time. I think he meant well but...”

“... mother always understood me perfectly.”

“I never had to _explain_. Not with her. For the time it lasted.”

“Our mind come from her. It's no wonder she gave you such a strong name. She knew who you were. She didn't want you to be merely a continuation of herself.”

“How did she name you?”

Mirfin's hesitation betrays him; for once, he may have treaded on a ground not comfortable to him. Only when Fëanaro starts to believe the Mulak will never answer does the name falls out of his lips.

“Therin.”

 _Needle_.

“She was often called Therindë after my birth. She invented sewing during her pregnancy and named needles therin too. She liked the word play. When people called her Therindë, she always joked that one knew if they were praising her for the needle or her son.”

“Did she teach you needlework?”

“She tried. I was more interested in running around. I thought I had the time.”

“I can pass the exam for embroidery instead of metal-working,” Fëanaro half affirms, half begs. Surely, Mairon wouldn't feel threatened by needle-work? At least, if he were to be recognized as an embroidered rather than a smith, he would keep being useless in the war effort. “It's not my specialty, but mother taught me and I did some very acceptable work for my family. I'm sure I can pass.”

“You have already been sorted.”

“The examination hasn't started yet! I'm sure you can convince Mairon!”

He gives Mirfin his best cute-face, full of hopefulness. Fëanaro isn't exactly known for those, and they mostly worked on Finwë and Nerdanel, at least until she learnt not to be moved by them, but with red rimmed eyes, genuine fear and need in them... if it doesn't move Mirfin, then nothing will.

“Please. I can't work with metal and jewelry again. I don't know if I'm even able to. I can bring back mother's work...”

“Don't even _try_ to use Miriel against me, Fëanaro,” Mirfin snaps. “Do you honestly think you will fail as a smith? Don't try to manipulate me. It won't work.”

“I don't know. I may manage or I may freeze like I did for the math examination... only I don't think I will be able to snap out of it.”

The Mulak’s glare pins him, searching for any sign of dishonesty.

“Fine. I will talk to Mairon.”

He stands.

“Now?”

“Of course now. When do you want me to deal with it? Tomorrow morning? Don't worry. I can do without sleep.”

There's no reproach, but Fëanaro still feels guilty... guilty and relieved.


	10. Xenophobia [Mirfin]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fëanaro graduates.

Fëanaro passes all his classes with results so incredible his crafting examination is almost disappointing. He fulfills his commission alright, at least technically, but the jury finds his aesthetical choices weird, and they almost get into a fight because Fëanaro obviously copies his mother's style rather than makes his own and doesn't appreciate at all when the craft mistress looks down at it works and calls the design _misguided_.

“Of course I didn't say anything. Mairon was here, I didn't want to anger him, but this foolish woman needs to craft herself a sense of _taste_.”

“Aesthetical tastes are mostly cultural,” Mirfin says, trying to soothe his little brother. Fëanaro likes to be praised and reassured, he thinks, because he take some things too much at heart, and never understands silent congratulations. Being much more reserved, Mirfin doesn't feel very comfortable doing so, but makes himself do it anyway. “She did say your work was technically very good.”

“She said I have _mediocre vision_!” Fëanaro rages. "And _average_ technique!”

“She didn't say average. It wasn't perfect, but you admitted yourself you didn't practice much in the past years. Considering embroidery has never been your craft of choice until a week ago, no one expected you to be perfect.”

“ _Everyone_ expects me to be perfect!”

“I don't.”

“Liar.”

“Perfection doesn't exist. You are chasing after the gold rabbit if you think you can reach it.”

“I did reach it. I crafted the Silmarilli.”

Mirfin's mouth curves into a disgusted smirk.

“You doubt their perfection because you never saw them.”

“And I hope I'll never have to!” Of course, it means Mirfin will never meet Melkor either, but he's not hoping he ever will at this point. The uruks can see Melkor, but none of them actually look like an elf. Mairon is hiding his alphas and betas. “I really don't understand how rocks emitting blinding light can be perfect.”

“Because you never saw them.”

“Really, Fëanaro? I questioned some of my uruks about them. They hurt. Some of them even had their eyesight damaged by them. Perfect art isn't supposed to hurt those who see the piece, especially if it wasn't intended to by the artist in the first place.”

“The uruks aren't worth looking at them. They are bad judges.”

“Can't you just admit that not everyone has to be swayed by the Silmarilli?”

“No. I can't. What is a gold rabbit?”

Mirfin sighs. Every time the Silmarilli come into play, they are unable to agree on anything. Fëanaro's love for them is something his brother can't uproot. The noldo can be quite good at arguing theoretical matters but not so when he is personally involved. Whether his refusal to be confrontational is new or has always been a part of his personality, Mirfin cannot guess.

“It's a rabbit made of gold.”

“So?”

“Fluithin's tale. It's the story of a girl who runs after a gold rabbit. Because she runs all the time she's becoming very fast, but every rabbit she catches isn't a gold rabbit, so she runs faster and longer to find it.”

“Does she?”

“No. She dies of exhaustion because gold is a metal, so obviously a gold, running living rabbit is impossible, and her mission was doomed to fail.”

“That's an awful story.”

“No it's not. It's a story about how we have to accept that some things are impossible and we can't devote our life to them.”

“I don't think Fluithin invented this. It doesn't make any literary sense,” Fëanaro muses. The pensive look on his face reassures Mirfin immensely: when Fëanaro starts to think about something, his anxiety tends to recedes. The Mulak summons his most interested face to keep him going. “If Fluithin had made the story, there would be a gold rabbit because it's a tale and Fluithin doesn't care if it's possible or not. The girl may not be able to catch it. Perhaps the rabbit is just too fast or jumps into holes where she can't fit. But the rabbit has to exist or it's not her style. Plus, the girl is running after gold, which means that gold is favored as an ideal of perfection, but it's not. Fluithin favors silver as a metal and cold, pale colors in general.”

“She does wear a lot of gold.”

“Mairon's gifts, each and every one of them. She wears them to please him but she doesn't like the color.”

“How do you know?”

“I asked,” the noldo shrugs. “Either an elf made the tale or Mairon did, but I'd be surprised if Fluithin did, unless there's a hidden meaning and the gold rabbit isn't perfection, but something dangerous that has to do with... envy, perhaps? Ambition? Wealth? Power? Then yes, if the rabbit is inherently bad instead of being good, I can imagine Fluithin imagining this tale, but then who interpreted this wrong? Anyway if you want to make Fluithin happy, I think the perfect gift isn't jewelry but fabric-based. She loves embroidery, by the way. I wanted to give the commission to her but it's subpar and...”

“Stop being foolish and give it to her, she will appreciate the gift.”

“No. It isn't good enough.”

“You don't have anything to prove to her. She will be happy to receive a gift, any gift from you.”

Mirfin still feels tension in his brother's body, the way he avoids his eyes to keep his closed mind and his thought safer. He's a bad actor, though, and his shoulders betray him.

“Something is bothering you.”

“It's nothing. I'm just annoyed because of the jury.”

“Something _else_ is bothering you.”

Fëanaro's jaw works in silence. It takes a long time to get the venom out.

“The scarifications. What if I don't want them?”

“I can't do anything about that. You will never be respected here unless your status is imprinted on your face.” Then... “It doesn't hurt much, nothing you can't handle. We use a very sharp razor and the cut is immediately closed with medicine. The scars actually disappear after a century or so. I have them done every fifty years. It's nothing compared to even a single lash.”

“It's... not done. Among my people.” Fëanaro turns glowing eyes toward him. Mirfin often wishes he could erase the light from them, but not as often as before. “Smooth, perfect faces are praised among us.”

“It's not the case here. You aren't in Valinor anymore. An unmarked face is either the face of a recently captured prisoner or of a child. You look infantile right now. The cuts will make you more beautiful and certainly more respected.”

“Not to my eyes.”

Despite Fëanaro's misgivings, he proves remarkably dignified when he receives the marks of adulthood, stoic and unreadable. The audience is less adept at hiding their trouble, some of them going as far as disdain for the stranger, the murderer of their people, being granted a non-deserved place into their midst.

Fëanaro's new status doesn't change anything at first. He dresses differently, but otherwise his days are spent the same way as before, splitting his time between linguistics, the nursery, hospital and now embroidery. He dedicates all his spare time to his craft, and half his nights. Because he requires strong light to work he keeps Mirfin up as a side effect.

“I'm not going to sleep until I finish this,” he snaps when his brother tries to coax him to their bed. “Aren't you bothered that they are blind to Miriel's genius? If I manage the perfect piece, they will have to see.”

His dark mood doesn't improve when his next piece's reception isn't better than the first one. He spends two hours inflicting a furious rant to Mirfin about the absoluteness of beauty, his critics’ lack of taste and his own incompetency. He accuses them of slandering his work because they don't like him, because he's a stranger and they are biased. When he's done ranting, Fëanaro throws himself at another design (Miriel's design), trying to remember how every single thread is supposed to fit and where.

“Why don't you make your own next time?” Mirfin proposes, worried when his brother rips his latest creation apart because “it doesn't remotely look like mother’s version”. “I liked this one.”

“That was horrible. That didn't do justice to the original. Don't you see I'm trying to show them they are wrong in slandering our mother?”

Mirfin sighs and lets go of the subject. He has better things to do than keep Fëanaro from hurting himself by defending their mother's honor: he's a grown elf now, he can figure it out by himself.

Agarin dies two months after. Mirfin doesn't how he feels about it. Is he sad? Relieved? Now that she's gone, he can remember who she used to be, a reliable elf, too sensitive perhaps, yet not an artist at all. She loved children. She wasn't the most beautiful, but she was the kind of person who felt deep pride in worshipping her partner's body. Mirfin had enjoyed having sex with her, tremendously. They never sired children together. Ki-Barzil was almost over-populated at the time, so the need wasn't there.

Fëanaro's promotion as Gashan is announced three days later in order to give the illusion that it wasn't planned. There's no contestation, not that that would be allowed in any way, the choice being Fluithin's and Mairon's, but the acceptation is sullen. There are whispers ( _stranger, he's an enemy isn't he?_ ), glares and smirks. Fëanor used to be the Mulak's exotic pet; now he's the scheming, foreign bitch who slept his way into power, as if everyone expects Mirfin to have actively lobbied the gods for the position.

“I always wondered,” one of his fellow Mulaks asks him, at the end of the daily meeting. “Do you actually blindfold him?” And to Mirfin's questioning gaze, he adds: “When you fuck him, I mean. Those eyes of his must be a huge turn off.” He laughs. “Unless you have a fetish for shiny eyes?”

Mirfin barely refrains from hitting him.

“You are speaking of my Gashan. Show some respect.”

“He's not a Gashan yet.” _And he would never be if I had my say_ , the other Mulak conveys through mindspeech.

He is startled when he meets Fëanaro after his hair have been bleached. He kept his eyebrows and had them bleached too, and the change is startling. Mirfin finds that he doesn't look that much like Finwë once the shared hair color disappears, and that there's more of Miriel on his face that he'd thought. With his white hair, fair skin and pale grey eyes, the white clothes of the Gashan, his brother looks devoid of all colors.

“How do I look?”

“Like a true Gashan.”

Fëanaro doesn't believe him.

“They all hate me, don't they?”

“It doesn't matter.” Mirfin isn't going to lie. “As long as they respect you.”

“They don't.”

“You will make them.”

He's worried, though. Fëanaro is too soft. He will need to distribute a few kicks here and there, but he won't be brutal enough, and what he will see as a moral behavior will only make him look like a coward or a weakling.

“Doesn't matter,” Mirfin reassures him. He takes Fëanaro's hands in his. “You have to concentrate on the ceremony. I believe everything has been explained to you, but if you have anything to ask, I'll help.”

“Do I have to paint my face?”

“It is done.”

“I know, but there's a difference between law and tradition. If the makeup is required by the laws, I'll wear them but if it isn't, I'd rather remain like this. They make me feel dirty.”

“You should at least paint your face for the ceremony. You can always not do it for everyday life. Would you like me to apply the make up?”

He nods and Mirfin gets to work like an artist making a portrait. Everyday make-up is fairly simple, while ceremonial one involves a lot of precise little touches he loves to apply. Each of them make his brother less a foreigner; the feeling enhanced by his closed eyes. The Mulak paints the skin in ivory and the lips in black. He lines the eyes with kohl, as far as the temples with thick, straight lines. The scars are made apparent with a gold pen, which he then uses on lips and eyes.

He then helps his brother fastens the outer layers of the dress, embroidered gloves and beaded necklaces. The last piece of the dress, the ornamented belt, is to be awarded during the ceremony. Only his hair remain untamed, flowing long and white to his waist, where it ends with a gentle wave. Going unbraided is the privilege of the highest order.

“You look…”

“… like I can’t move at all,” Fëanaro cuts him. He tries to raise his arms, but the outer dress is so stiff the shoulders don’t really fold. He would be ridiculous but for the eyes, made feral by the black lines.

“I was going to say regal, but not-able-to-move fits.” Mirfin grabs the nearby mirror to show him his face. “I’m rather proud of the painting.”

The noldo tries some different angles, brows furrowed, as if trying to decide whether he likes it or not.

“Do you think father would recognize me if he saw me now?”

Mirfin doesn’t have anything to answer to that. He doesn’t know enough of Finwë to guess. He offers his hand to his new Gashan instead, feeling the soft material of the white gloves on the skin of his palm as he leads him out of their house.

 

***

 

Fëanaro’s princely upbringing shows through the whole ceremony. He is tall, dignified, magnificent in his rich clothes and golden make-up, voice carrying far and strong. Mirfin stands a few feet behind him. He knows his brother to be terrified by Mairon’s presence at his side, but the Gashan doesn’t show his fear. He ignores the hostile glances, the whispers; he walks with the grace of someone who wore heavy, impractical clothes before, and manages to do so as if they weight nothing.

They make an odd couple, Mirfin thinks while he steps forward to drape the heavily ornamented belt around his brother’s waist. Since Gashans are mostly intellectual, healers and crafters, they tend to be physically weaker than the Mulaks, bred and trained for war, most of whom try to build as much muscles as they can to intimidate. Mirfin, however, is both smaller and lighter than Fëanaro, whose shoulders and arms are starting to thicken back to their original strength, and who towers over him in a way that leaves no question as to who looks like the alpha male. Mirfin still believes he can easily beat him in most fights, but he’s conscious this advantage would be quickly lost if Fëanaro were ever given proper combat training.

They are supposed to share a kiss at the end of the ceremony. The Mulak is afraid the very prudish noldo prince will balk, but no: he seems rather amused that he has to bow to meet Mirfin’s lips.

The formal feast goes less well. All the Mulaks and Gashans are assembled here, thirteen of each, and most of them aren’t happy to welcome the former Noldoran among them. None can openly express their resentment, though, since both Mairon and Fluithin preside over the feast. There is, however, a tendency to choose subjects that are bound to anger or embarrass Fëanaro, or to trick him into betraying his faked loyalties toward his new masters.

Fëanaro doesn’t give them satisfaction and remains the ever docile and gracious star of the evening. Mirfin, who sits at Mairon’s right, cannot decipher his attitude very well since Fëanaro is at Fluithin’s left, but his voice remains calm, if slightly accented.

“I have heard elves from Valinor don’t have sex _at all_ ,” says the Mulak who, the day before, dared to ask Mirfin about blindfolds. Obviously, this one has a tendency to think about his cock more than he should. “Why is that? Do you actually cut some vital parts out of you, or was the noldorin civil war caused, in fact, by all those unfulfilled sexual tension you’re sure to experience?”

“It is true that intimate relationships are far less… frequent, varied and public than they are here,” Fëanaro answers with audible discomfort.  Sex, Mirfin knows, is definitely a taboo subject among his people. “Since we do have children, however, I wonder how you came to the conclusion that sex doesn’t happen at all.”

“Well, having sex seven time in your whole life is not “no sex at all”, granted, but that’s still ridiculously low,” the Mulak laughs.

Mirfin can picture Fëanaro’s skin changing to a deep red; it wouldn’t show under the paint.

“How generous of you, granting me one intercourse per son,” the noldo retorts with more anger than humor. “Are you at least aware that it’s statistically almost impossible to sire a child each time you have sex?”

“Granted. But if you don’t have good fucks outside of breeding…”

“I do not recall gifting the Holy Tongue to your people to have it sullied by such coarse phrasing, Mulak Sigil,” Mairon’s interrupts him. As a sexually non-interested being, he’s less than passionate about the turn of the conversation, though he hasn’t begrudged his alphas with a bit of teasing thus far.

 

***

 

Fëanaro waits until they are alone, in their new, huge chamber, to explode.

He asks, first, calmly, for Mirfin’s help in getting rid of the heaviest outer layers, while he, calmly, peels off the gloves. His body is tensed like a horse’s barely reigned, stiff, immobile; calm, yes, but only on the surface, while he boils inside.

Once he’s out and free to move, he grabs the first breakable thing available – a wooden low table of the highest quality – and smash it against the nearest wall with a furious scream. He bashes it again and again until it’s so broken he can’t handle it anymore. Fëanaro keeps screaming then, until his breath starts to choke from lack of air and tears stream black down his whitened cheeks.

“Are you…”

“Alright. I’m… I’m alright. Just… letting out…” His breath is starting to come back. “… don’t worry. Just… give me time.”

By the time Fëanaro is done half an hour later, his voice is hoarse, his face ruined, but he’s finally calm – truly calm this time.

“Was I good enough?” he asks with a croaky voice. “Did I _behave_?”

“You were wonderful. It’s not your fault if they acted with pettiness.”

“They hate me all. Of them. The Mulaks, the Gashans, my own betas, all of them want me dead or enslaved at their feet.” He sits warily on their new bed, a huge thing a few steps up the floor, and starts to untie his shoes. “How I am supposed to rule over them?”

“I will help,” Mirfin reaffirms while he starts to clean his own make-up. “We are a team. I won’t allow anyone to disrespect you, even your beta. Remember that disrespecting you earns them twenty lashes. That should make them think twice.”

“I’m not torturing anyone,” Fëanaro warns him. “And I won’t have my betas flogged for my sake.”

“It’s expected of you.”

“Many things have been expected of me in the past. I deliver if I find it acceptable, but flogging _isn’t_.”

“It’s the law.”

“I’ll find loopholes. You aren’t the only one who can read.”

“Gashans aren’t supposed to disturb order. It’s a dangerous game.”

“Why am I here then?” Fëanaro raises his eyes to meet Mirfin’s, irises aflame. “Tell me, why did Mairon go to such lengths to make a Gashan out of me if he doesn’t want me to disturb order? Why name a foreigner who barely fakes conformism if not to introduce change?”

“But it won’t work! Your refusal to use the usual punishment won’t be seen as progress or noble restrain! They will only think you weak and feel allowed to mistreat you!”

“I’d rather suffer their disdain than fight it by becoming a monster. I have accepted much already, far more than I have during my whole life, to fit in Ki-Barzil. I have accepted to remain silent while you pray to Melkor, to accept Mairon’s authority and to participate in what is, truly, a war effort against my own people. I have allowed you to bleach my hair and cut my face. I speak your tongue, eat your food and dress like you. I already gave so much of myself I can’t recognize my own face in the mirror, but I allow it because I don’t have a choice. I won’t, however, allow this place to corrupt the core of what I am, the values dearest to me, and what morality I can still uphold. There is a point where I can’t give up ground anymore and have to stand, even if I have to stand against the world and everyone that lives in it.”

“At least allow me to punish them in your name.”

“No. Do whatever you want with your betas, but mine are under my authority and will be punished as I see fit if needed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is also going to be from Mirfin's POV because this one proved far too long to include everything.


	11. To Love or to Sing [Mirfin]

They go to bed tenser than Mirfin would have wished. Fëanaro is still set on his unrealistic policy; his elder falls asleep wondering how long he will last before the Mulak has to take over and discipline his betas. The big bed feels weird after so many months spent sharing a cot: enormous, empty and foreign, despite the centuries the Mulak spent there.

He is used to fall asleep quickly and enjoy dreamless nights. Mirfin doesn’t know if the visions springs from Fëanaro’s troubled mind, from the unusual distance between their bodies or ghosts roaming the room, but he wakes long before morning comes; he turns to check on his brother, but the face turned toward him is too feminine to match.

He awakens fully. Agarin is not there (a nightmare; nothing more than a false rousing), but Fëanaro is, breathe raged and still coming out from sleep.

“Who is she?” the noldo asks. He crawls to the side of the bed to light a lantern. The yellowish glow washes his ghostly hair and skin in warm light.

“Your predecessor,” Mirfin whispers. He knows they shared the dream, though he cannot pinpoint why. The Mulak caught some of Fëanaro’s dreams before, but his brother’s closed mind never accepted one of his. “This is nothing.”

“Nothing?” Fëanaro closes his eyes, a statue of alabaster but for the thin curtain of his dark eyelashes. When his lids come up, the silver light of his irises pierces the room, shinier than the lamp itself. His voice erupts strangled from his lips. “How can you say this is nothing? Tell me, did she die where you would have me sleep? Did the servants even change the sheets?”

“They must have washed them.”

“Washed them?” Fëanaro throws the blankets away. “I cannot do this.”

“Fëanaro – “

“What?” He turns on his heels, his fey eyes white, the lamp defining his silhouette from behind his back through his linen clothes. “What are you going to say, Mulak of mine? Are you going to call me soft and sensitive for refusing to sleep in the bed, in the sheets of an elf whose endless agony is to be laid on my doorstep? Are you going to call me weak because I care?”

“You are not at fault.”

“No. I am not. I did not kill her and I did not decide to prolong her death, yet her suffering happened _because of me_. I will not be your Indis.”

“Where are you going?”

“To my old room. Do not tell me it is unfit for my rank. Gashan or not, I am nothing but a prisoner here.”

 He drapes himself in a dressing gown (made for him; he is far too tall for the clothes to have belonged to Agarin) and strides out of the room. In the emptiness of the chambers, Mirfin is left staring at the door, the silence deafening, beating against his ears. Now that Fëanaro is gone, he expects Agarin to come out of the shadows, smiling, glowing with the satisfaction of a day fulfilled. She would have asked him about his day and brushed his hair; her hands would have moved down his locks to his shoulders. If she felt like it, her lips would have replaced her fingers against the nape of his neck. He would have slept fitfully, knowing she would wake him and go back to work with a smile on her face and an efficient hand.

But Agarin is dead. Agarin is dead, replaced by Fëanaro and his whole loads of troubles, brilliant and broken, as lovable as he is infuriating.

How could Mirfin ever expect to find a true Gashan in him? Since the beginning, his brother has been wholly dependent of him, a companion but a weight nonetheless. Bleaching his hair and cutting his face cannot give him back the confidence needed for this job.

Does it matter? Mirfin is stuck with him. Fëanaro is Fluithin’s, even Mairon’s favorite, and he still enjoys an immunity of a decade before anyone will be allowed to defy him. He is stuck for at least another decade of living like _this_ … or _worst_ , since he now has _no authority_ to keep Fëanaro from messing up.

He strides to their old room and finds Fëanaro already curled under the blankets. The noldo has a whole bed-language, and _curled_ usually means troubles. So do _turned against the wall_ and _unresponsive_.

“We need to talk.”

“Do we?” He doesn’t turn. “You can’t make me.”

“Fëanaro – “

“You do not command me anymore. You cannot force me to go there.”

“No. I cannot. I cannot force you to be a Gashan either, or to do anything to help me, but I need you to. You say you cannot – but do you have any idea what I have been through this past years? I have not had a proper night of sleep for years, my people are dead or dying, I have more duties than two Mulaks combined and the gods know how many others problems, _you_ being one of them. Do you know what kept me going? _The hope that I would have a Gashan by my side!_

Do you know what a Gashan is to a Mulak? She is his only equal in the world. The only person a Mulak can trust and confide in is his Gashan and no one else. Not his children, not his wife, not his parents or his betas or his gods. _No one_. I have been _alone_ ever since Agarin died. You refuse to share this bed with me? Fine. Do whatever you want. But do not let me down when I am finally asking you to support me because if you do not try, I will never forgive you.”

Fëanaro rolls on his back, lips pinched, unreadable until he pushes the blankets away and moves against the wall. Mirfin falls back to his old place, only this time his little brother snakes his arms around him. They have never slept in each other’s arms before. Being close enough to touch was enough, sometimes too much; tonight, Mirfin is surprised at how easily his chin and cheek find their place in the crook of Fëanaro’s neck, how good the strong arms feels around his shoulder, how soothing his fingers are when they entwine in his hair.

“Agarin,” Fëanaro pronounces in quenya, almost reverently, “you loved her, did you not?”

The lump in his throat is unexpected.

“I do not know.” Mirfin loved Miriel and loves her still. He never wondered if what he felt for Agarin could compare – they had worked well together, laughed together, but did he feel more affection than friendship? “She was born in Ki-Barzil. Feelings are not discussed here.”

“I love you.”

“Fëanaro…”

“I am not of Ki-Barzil. I do not care if this is improper. You made me love you despite myself, and I _will_. I will get us both out of there. I will get us back to our family. Talk with Nolofinwë. Get father back somehow. Then we… move east. We create a magnificent kingdom of our own with the light of the Silmarils – I know you do not want to look at them, but we will need light to grow crops. We will build magnificent towns…”

“This is just a _dream_ , Fëanaro.”

The noldo’s arms strengthen their grip around Mirfin’s shoulders. His skin feels warm under Mirfin’s touch, warmer than usual, as if Fëanaro had been standing close to a fire for a long time. As if something long dormant had awakened inside him, a shard of the furnace that had been there as they dueled.

“ _Dreams_ , Mirfin, can be crafted into reality. We dream because we need to know that we can go farther. That another life is possible. And it is. We can, _you_ can live differently, in a world where you will not have to receive dozens of whiplash to keep your subordinates from dying. You could have a family. Live with your children, have a wife. You could be reunited with father and finally know him.”

It is so easy, so tempting to bask in the warmth radiating from his brother; yet Mirfin knows such temptation as too dangerous to sate. Touching Fëanaro always brings them together, as if Fëanaro was a living person again, and not a curious case of deaf-mute elf whose spirit refuses to interact with the world. Being in his arms… is like standing near a bonfire in winter. As if a curtain of ashes had been lifted, revealing the flame, still ready to leap and burn, if only something could reignite it and fuel the wrath.

It is so easy, so tempting, and yet far too dangerous.

“Dreams are delusions. We must work with the reality we _have_ , Fëanaro, not what could be. You mustn’t –”

“You are afraid,” the younger brother hisses. “You are afraid and tamed because you were broken into believing hope is a lie. Don’t you see, Mirfin? They took you as children, they broke whatever friendship was between you, they taught you to be unfeeling, unsmiling. They made tools out of you. They taught you to be brutal and cruel and efficient, nonetheless they _failed_. You try to convince yourself that Agarin was just your Gashan so you don’t have to admit that you loved her. You try to convince yourself you are being honorable and fair when you flog yourself, but you are only trying to lessen your guilt. You pretend you are content but you are far too afraid of those dreams and delusions for this peace to be real. You fear them because you know you will crumble if you ever consider another way.”

“There is no other way. The God of the gods will win at the end. I will not revolt against the true Fate of Arda.”

“This is a lie. Melkor was vanquished not once but twice already. If my son’s blades do not strike him down, the Valar will.”

“What change would this make? We would still serve them.”

“I experienced both. As free as I wish we could be, I would choose the Valar above Melkor any day.” Fëanaro props himself on an elbow, looking down on his elder’s face. “You asked me to trust you about this place. I did and here I am. I am not considering killing myself anymore. Can you do the same and trust me that the outside world is not what Mairon says it is?”

The silver eyes are like a fire chasm; the metaphorical hand held up with the promise of plenty and safety there, but hardly trustworthy. Mirfin knows he has more chances to burn his wings than to see them grow. He cannot accept Fëanaro’s hope, not when his brother crashed to the ground right in front of his eyes.

Does he truly have the choice of refusing, though? If Fëanaro is ready to rise to his side, wouldn’t that mean Mirfin must accepts that his views are different, and that he, too, should be led from time to time by his quarrelsome brother? After centuries of being the undisputed leader at home?

A strand of Fëanaro’s bleached hair slips from behind his hair, falling to caress Mirfin’s cheek, soft as silk. He was led, once, by a woman with silver eyes, pale hair and Fëanaro’s habit of talking almost too fast. The Mulak blinks Miriel’s face away.

“Yes. I trust you.”

“You will let me take care of our rooms.”

“Alright.”

“You will let me deal with my beta as I see fit.”

“If that is your wish.”

“You will let me dress and apply the make up as I wish, as long as I don’t contradict the laws. You will not comment unfavorably on any change I will make to my own body.”

“Fine.”

“Then let us sleep, brother,” Fëanaro says before he lays back on the mattress, pulling Mirfin back where he was, their bodies comfortingly close. “The hour is too late.”

The words merge into a soft, sleepy sigh, and before long, slumber takes them both.

 

In the following days, Mirfin finds himself unexpectedly barred from his own chambers. He doesn’t mind much since he hasn’t been living there in months, but what little he hears from his brother’s deeds there is enough to worry him quite a bit: whatever Fëanaro decided to do, it will be done so thoroughly Mirfin doesn’t expect to even recognize the rooms that have been his home for centuries.

He must accept. He must accept that Fëanaro’s peace of mind comes at a cost, and this cost, now, is Mirfin’s comfort zone. He mustn’t be weak enough to begrudge him this, not when Fëanaro lost everything. He mustn’t let himself be annoyed by his little brother’s playful smiles and his refusal to “spoil the surprise”.

Until, one day, the doors give under his hand; until Fëanaro finally decides to unlock them.

Their room is unrecognizable.

The white, stone carved walls have been replaced by vibrant colors: green climbing up the wall in vines, flowers of red and blue and yellow blossoming, streams and trees and all matters of things that live only outside. The ceiling has been painted in dark cerulean, whole families of light bugs crawling there, forming ever moving constellations. Gone are the tapestries woven in Ki-Barzil; gone are the geometrical patterns of the worn carpets Mirfin couldn’t be bothered with changing. Gone, too, is the bed that used to be carved in rock: that has been encircled with wood. Even the placement of the lanterns is changed.

In one corner sits Fëanaro, cross-legged in a dirty set of tunic and pants that look like he rolled himself in the paint, a brush in his hand, another one planted into the messy bun crowning his head, the tip still charged with orange. More striking than the robin he is drawing is his hair. The root up to his shoulder has been dyed back to a blue so dark, it could pass as raven black under any low lightning. The tips, as well, are very close to Fëanaro’s original color; yet between these areas of black, the mane stands out, colored sapphire as if it had been dipped straight into one of Fëanaro’s pot of paint. The sight is so ridiculous that Mirfin can only stare, dumbfounded, at the peculiar sight of his brother.

Fëanaro turns toward him; his eyesbrows, too, have been dyed to an almost raven-black.

“Your hair.”

“You noticed?” the Gashan asks cheerfully. Of course Mirfin noticed. He is speechless, astonished by the capillary disaster flowing down Fëanaro’s shoulders. “I checked the laws. I do not have to bleach my hair, so I decided to restore it back to my original color.”

“Your… this… Fëanaro, this is _blue_.”

“Yes well raven-black is blueish under the light, you know. I considered henna but the only one I could find here would have given me a reddish hue.”

“This is not blueish. This is _blue_.”

“Yes.”

“Blue and bicolor.”

“Yes, that was the risk when I started. All the lengths that grew naturally I managed to dye, but the length I got when I was with Fluithin and my hair grew amazingly fast? The dark pigment just didn’t hold.”

“What are you going to do about this?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Mirfin. My hair turned blue. This is not a dire situation, or a problem, or anything like this. A century ago I would have screamed and probably thought Nolofinwë or most likely his daughter did this, but now? I just find the whole thing funny. I do not care if others find something to say about this. I like the idea that I will look at my face every morning and see that I have silly blue hair and that _it isn’t problematic_ _in any way_. I am done being stressed out by petty problems that aren’t actual problems.”

There is a purity in his laugh that just wasn’t _there_ before, enhanced by the incongruous sight of his bicolor hair, the orange brush tilting dangerously and the splashes of paint speckling his face and clothes. He looks like…

He looks happy.

“Flowers. Trees. Birds. The stars. I don’t want to forget any of those. The moment I will allow myself to forget there is an outside world is the moment I will lose this fight. I am still searching for a way to have real plants that do not look like mushrooms in here. I am having bright green carpet made. The bed is valinorean style, though I had to make it a lot bigger to fit on the stone structure. I wouldn’t even call this king sized anymore. Do you like it?”

“I…” Truth to be said, the bed is a monstrosity. “I have never slept in a wooden bed before.”

“Go check. I had the bedframe engraved by a sinda from mithrim.”

He had. The whole thing is covered in stylized animals, deer and stags, rabbits and birds, entwined with spiraling patterns and soft curves. The frame is wide enough to cover the former stone stairs, enough to display whole herds. Fëanaro’s side is already partly covered with scrolls, the small slates he uses to take notes, a whole array of needles and unfinished embroidered ribbons.

“I will make a tapestry to go above the bed, but first I have to finish conceiving the new loom. Have you noticed all the tapestries are very narrow? This is because the looms are too small to do anything else, but I cannot just make a bigger one, the structure would be too cumbersome. Any idea about the subject?”

“I like your abstracts patterns. You could put some orange.”

“Why orange?”

“Fits your flaming personality.”

“Does it?” He grabs the brush, orange paint still fresh on the hairs. “I think I will favor blue from now on. Blue, white, silver. Calmer colors. Colder. But you need some orange.” There is something damaged behind his eyes, something broken that yearns to be repaired, something that aspires to be silly and free and be safe and protected.

The brush trails lightly against Mirfin’s lips, smudging bright orange on the skin the form of a smile. The paint feels odd: after Fëanaro’s ascension as a Gashan, Mirfin stopped to wear the white foundation, and he is just starting to get used to be seen with a naked skin. The texture of the orange paint is not so different, just… well, probably very bright. Mirfin’s fingers ghost on his painted lips; they come out colored like some of the flashiest cavern mushrooms.

“Orange and blue…”

_I just find the whole thing funny._

He wonders… he knows what he wants to do, even if he hasn’t done this kind of things since his childhood, even if it feels so foreign and shameful –

_I do not care if others find something to say about this._

No one would know. No one; yet, it is a crack that could grow (that is growing). It smells of danger and change, changes that will affect Mirfin and may weaken him as a Singer. A crack that could cost him the very position that allows him to protect his brother.

To protect himself.

_I like the idea that I will look at my face every morning and see that I have silly blue hair…_

How is he supposed to find balance between Fëanaro’s needs for closeness and their safety? How is he supposed to make him feel better if anything that should help him weaken them?

How is he supposed to take the reasonable decision when his little brother is looking at him with bright eyes and the widest smile since they met?

_…and that it isn’t problematic in any way._

  It is, Mirfin thinks, starring at the orange paint on his fingers, feeling the color on his lips. It is problematic, brother. It is…

“Fëanaro. Painting your brother’s face is childish,” the Mulak says with all the sternness of a father. The smile drops. “You should do that more often.”

He doesn’t wait for Fëanaro to recover from the shock – he latches on him, orange lips smearing the paint on his cheeks, hands fighting for the brush until he manages to snatch him from Fëanaro’s finger. They topple on the bed, the brush now poised, ready to scribble whatever nonsenses can come through their head –

“Not on the bed, Mirfin, the sheets are brand new!”

“I was planning your brow, actually.”

“What happened to my stern brother?”

He answers with a kiss on Fëanaro’s smudgy face, the noldo laughing, then exploding in delighted shrieks once Mirfin moves to tickling (tickling!).

“I love you, little brother,” he breathes against his ear, chest heaving after the laugh subsides, using the older words taught by his mother. Words that shouldn’t exist in Ki-Barzil. “I love you.”

_…and that it isn’t problematic in any way._

But it is.

Oh, it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the final chapter of Full Brothers in Blood, but this is not the last part of Mirfin and Fëanaro's adventures in Angband. I hope to see you again in the yet untitled book II!


	12. Art: Mirfin by Tosquinha

Tosquinha did a wonderful commission of Mirfin, as seen in chapter 1!


	13. Art: Mirfin by LoranDeSore

[LoranDeSore](http://lorandesore.tumblr.com/) made such a wonderful portrait of Mirfin, as seen in chapter 1 <3


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